Catching Feelings
by Nemo et Nihil
Summary: Her assignment: Eliminate Steve Rogers, aka Captain America. On paper that sounds easy, a standard "seduce and destroy" mission. Natasha had done hundreds of them before. Only problem is she didn't expect Steve Rogers to be sweet, kind and a gentleman: a good man. Nor did she expect for her heart to get in the way of her mission.
1. I

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

He was a handsome man, there was no denying that. Strong jaw, broad shoulders, bulging biceps and pecs, and lovely blue eyes (if the recent pictures were to be believed). Captain America was back, and he just defeated the Norse god Loki and his Chitauri army (with the help of Iron Man, Hawkeye, the Hulk and Thor). He was currently living in Brooklyn, New York. Natasha didn't really care for the city. It was loud and busy, swarming with people packed in like sardines, pushing and shoving as they walked down the street with concerns only for their own lives. It was not dissimilar to Moscow, but Natasha always felt that the Russians understood personal space better than the Americans.

The one thing that vexed her about Brooklyn (and New York), was the vibrancy. It was something that Russian cities lacked thanks to years under communist rule (and she'd also argue under tsarist rule as well. Russians were gluttons for pain, suffering and misery), the once brilliant vibrancy that was still present in the onion domes of the Orthodox churches wasn't present in modern buildings but in Brooklyn (and New York), it was there. It bothered her and made her understand why so many were willing to risk their lives to escape the oppressive nature of Russian communism for the scintillating glory of American capitalism. Of course, she would never say that. She was Black Widow, a proud Russian and loyal to her country. She would execute her mission without fail. Her handler had once joked that she's like a missile: seduce and destroy. She had given him a blithe smile, inwardly smirking as he gulped down his panic. She looked up from the picture in her hand of her target and swore when she realized he was standing there, knocking on the window of her dance studio. He knocked again. "Hello? Hello, is this place open?" he asked, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer inside the darken studio.

Sighing, she walked over to the door, unlocked it and stepped out onto the street. "We aren't open. We don't open until six." She gestured to the sign on the window with the days and hours of operation.

"Oh." He flushed. "I uh… was hoping to sign up." He shook out his foot (the left one). "I think I suffer from two left feet." He smiled. She rolled her eyes. Americans. "It uh… was a joke."

"Not a very good one," she said. His shoulders slumped, and he looked like she had just kicked his puppy. "Come back at six and I can sign you up for classes," she said. He rested his arm on the glass directly above he head, leaning in a bit with an easy smile on his lips. He didn't say anything, eyes looking her over. She arched a brow and he glanced away (she noted his ears turned pink). This "seduce and destroy" mission could be easier than she thought — especially if he was this easy to read and to manipulate — so she decided to play back. "Private lessons are okay with you?" she asked, trailing her index finger down his well define pec. A smirk spread across her face a little when he swallowed hard enough for his Adam's apple to visible bob.

"Y-Yeah…" he said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. She wondered if he dressed like an old man out of for desire for something familiar or if he just had bad fashion sense. He nodded. "Private lessons sound great." He grinned.

"See you and six then," she said and gave him a wink before slipping back into her studio. He lingered outside the door for a little bit, hands in his pockets as he scuffed the sidewalk before he moved on. Back behind the desk, she pulled out the file on Captain America again. "Oh." His name was Steven Grant Rogers (he went by Steve) and was born July 4th, 1918. It was just so… _American_.

"That him?" Dmitri asked; she glanced up at her handler. Rat face, lanky and (in her opinion) didn't have two brain cells to rub together. "He doesn't look so bad. You can take him." Dmitri opened a bag of chips and began to eat.

"He's America's super soldier," she said, tossing the file on to the desk. Dmitri continued to munch away on his snack. "Eliminating him won't be easy."

"Sure, it will," Dmitri said around a mouthful of chips. "You get him in bed, screw his brains out and then smother him." She arched a brow as she glared at him. Dmitri paled. "Th-That is what you do right?"

"Idiot." She grabbed the bag of chips. "And don't eat while hovering over me. Remember you're the janitor." She plucked a chip from the bag and ate it, the corners of her lips curling up when she saw Dmitri pale a little bit. "Get going, start cleaning." She pointed the broom in the shadowy corner to her right. Dmitri sighed and went to start cleaning the already spotless studio.

Evening started to set in around six. The shadows lengthening and the street lamps turning on, bathing the sidewalk in a sickening orange glow. She stuck to the back alleys, following the mental map she made of Brooklyn. Cats yowled behind dumpsters, she even heard rats skittering about in the giant metal containers. In a few alleys she passed she saw a hooker and her john getting it on. She skipped around the puddles that reflected the light of the buildings and swallowed the shadows of the alleyway. Cars rumbled down the street, louder than what it sounded like during the day, in the distance a police siren blared. Though night, the city was still abuzz with activity; New York was truly the city that never slept.

* * *

She trotted down an alley, stopping at the end to make sure the coast was clear before stepping out. She walked with a purpose down the street, pulling out a thin hair stick and winding her long red hair around it before securing it in a bun. His apartment building was a few stories high, brick and had the feeling of age about it. Rogers' apartment was on the third floor and the window was on the left side of the building. Ducking back into the shadows she made her way around it and glanced at her watch. He should be halfway to the dance studio by now and soon he'll realize she stood him up. Looking at the window, she took a few steps back and ran at the building, jumping onto the rim of the dumpster, then to the first window where she used her momentum to launch herself up to the next. She scrabbled a bit, the smooth brick not allowing any purchase for her feet. Grunting, she pulled herself up, hanging in a crouch beneath the second window. The light was on, and she watched the shadow behind the curtains move.

The person turned their back to the window and she sprung, launching herself to the upper railing and then to the fire escape. His window was the next one on the escape relay. Climbing the ladder, she reached the window and pressed her ear against the glass. Silence. Smirking, she pulled a knife out and undid the latch and opened the window a little. Skilled fingers patted around the windowsill to make sure she wouldn't trip any security system. That would be bad. Finding none, she opened the window further and slipped in, closing it again with a soft barely heard thump. She stood in the room for a minute to let her eyes adjust to the dark apartment. A crackle in her ear jarred her senses. "Widow?" it was Dmitri. "Widow are you in?"

"I'm in? Status?"

"He's here, knocking on the door."

"Good." She chewed her lip. "Let him come in and sign up for classes," she said.

"Affirmative."

Silence returned, and she calculated how long she had to set her bugs before Rogers came home. She pulled out the little bag of teeny tiny cameras. She opened the window again and stuck the transmitter on the outer underside of the windowsill. Closing the window again, she went around his apartment, putting bugs in the nooks and crannies of his bare apartment. There was hardly a personal touch to be found. It was all manufactured, as if someone figured this is what he would like and put in here. Beige and muted natural tones, with some 40s memorabilia here and there. She opened his fridge, frowning when she saw how bare it was. She headed to his bedroom.

It was spartan. A bed, with a nightstand and a desk lamp on it. She used the nightstand as a launching point to get to the corner and put a bug in juncture of the ceiling and two walls. Doing a back flip, she landed on the other side of the bed and looked at the items on it. An old fashion alarm clock, a three-picture frame with a young woman, a young man with slick back hair and a group of soldiers in a variety of military uniforms from American GIs, British infantry and Free French. An old army issued compass sat in the middle of the three-picture frame. She picked it up, making a surprised sound when she found it still worked and she noted the picture of the woman in the frame was the same in the compass. She closed it, setting it down and opened the drawer. A bible, a rosary and another thin book. Pulling out the thin book, she flipped through it, eyes widening at the drawings. The drawings stopped about half way through and she swore at the final image. He had sketched her and with such detail, considering they only talked for a few minutes. "_Bozhe moy_." Snapping the book close she put it back and placed a camera on the underside of the nightstand's lip. She went into the bathroom, securing a camera beneath his medicine cabinet, and then taking a needle thin waterproof camera and inserting into the shower head. She turned the water on to make sure the camera wouldn't be pushed out by the stream.

Satisfied, she turned the water off, and went back to placing the cameras around his apartment. Setting the last camera, she heard the door open to his apartment. Dmitri hadn't told her that Rogers left yet. "Hello?" a woman's voice called out into the darkness. Natasha ducked behind the couch as the intruder came in. "Captain Rogers are you home?" she asked. "My name is Agent 13, Director Fury assigned me to protect you."

Shit. The window that lead to the fire escape was a few paces to her left, but if she moved Agent 13 would see her. She had to leave before Rogers came home. Agent 13 walked further into the dark apartment, the light from the hallway illuminating the entranceway. Swallowing, she pulled out a sting. She had the element of surprise and Agent 13 would be too stunned to react. Readying herself to fling her sting at the other spy, she froze when another shadow darkened the door way and the lights came on. "Kate?" Rogers had come back.

Fucking Dmitri. She ground her teeth, wondering what Dmitri was doing and why he didn't alert her that Rogers had left the studio. She slipped her sting back into her belt and pressed herself closer to the couch. There was no way in hell she'd be able to make it to the window unnoticed. Rogers' enhanced senses would spot her no matter how fast she moved. Hopefully, he'll escort Agent 13 out of the apartment. "Captain Rogers," Agent 13 said, sounding surprised. "What… what are you doing here?"

"I live here," he said, "what are you doing here?"

"I uh…" Agent 13 swallowed.

"How did you get into my apartment? I don't remember giving you a key."

"Well, the thing is… I… shit, this isn't supposed to go like this." Agent 13 holstered her gun and ran her hand through her hair. "Can we talk… outside Captain?"

"No." Rogers folded his arms over his chest. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, the leather of his jacket strained against his flexed biceps and shoulder muscles. She wondered why this man's physique was getting to her. She had seen handsome men before, but none quiet like him. "I want to know what you're doing in my apartment with a gun."

"Please, Captain Rogers, let's take this outside," Agent 13 said. "I promise to explain everything but, let's go outside."

Go outside, go outside, _go outside!_ Natasha bit her cheek hard enough to taste blood, but eventually Rogers sighed and agreed, heading out of the apartment with Agent 13. The lights stayed on, but the door closed to a crack. Fucking Dmitri. She bolted for the window, opening it and slipping out onto the fire escape. Closing the window, she checked the transmitter, turned it on and jumped down to the next level, and then the next. She landed in a dumpster, grimacing at whatever garbage she landed in (it was sticky and had the sour stink of an old energy drink), before scrambling out and running down the alleyway.

* * *

It pleased her to no end when Dmitri jerked, his bag of chips falling to the floor as he stood up, tripping over his own feet and some papers fluttering to the floor. "Widow!" he sounded surprised, _shocked_ even. "You're back."

"Glad you noticed," she said, sashaying into the room as she plucked a slimy banana peel from her hair and dropped it into the trash and picked up his bag of chips and setting it on the table. "I see you're enjoying American food."

"Uh… yeah," he said, coloring rising to his cheeks. "How… did you set the bugs?" he asked, eyes darting to the computer on the desk. She arched a brow. "Why uh… what happened?" he asked gesturing to her ruined catsuit. She gave him a blithe smile, enjoying the way he cowered at the sight.

"There have been some complications," she said, pushing pass him and tapping the computer keys until the images of the cameras she planted came up. She watched Rogers wander around his apartment as if he was lost and dejected. A man out of time, she thought with a frown (she almost felt bad for him, knowing the feeling of being disconnected from a culture and time) as she watched him go to his bedroom and grab his sketchbook. He flopped onto the couch, flipping to the page with her drawing and began to work. She tapped a few more keys, the cameras zooming in on him; his face was a mask of concentrating. "Ones you would've known if you were paying attention."

"Widow?"

"Why didn't you tell me Rogers left?" she asked, Rogers looked up and glanced. She wondered if he could hear the electrical hum of the cameras. If he could, that would be something they'd have to factor in. "Or that Shield is watching him?" Rogers went back to his drawing after a few seconds.

"I uh…"

"Do I need to tell Stalyenko about this, Dmitri?" she asked, watching as Rogers stood up and made a pot of tea. He drummed his fingers on the countertop as he waited for the water to boil. He poured the water over the tea bag and added milk and two teaspoons of sugar before going back to the couch. He ignored the sketchbook, holding the cup in both hands, elbows resting on his knees. He looked pensive, as if he's thinking about his new life. She stood up, turning her back on the computer. "You fucked up Dmitri."

"I'm… Romanova… I'm—"

"You are my handler," she said, poking him in the chest. "That means, you gather intelligence, scout out the locations I'm supposed to go to, do detail background checks on the people involved in my mission, and watch my back." She pressed her finger into the hollow of Dmitri's throat, he whimpered as he tried to squirm away from the painful pressure. She smirked, enjoying his suffering. "Failure in _any_ part of your duties will result in my capture or death, and then the Red Room will be very, very angry."

"Yes… Romanova… I…" he gasped, scared to touch her in an effort to relieve the pressure on his throat. "I understand."

"Do you?" she asked, pushing him away. "Who does Shield have assigned to protect him?"

"Uhm…"

She rolled her eyes and tapped a few keys on the screen, an image of a blonde woman appeared with a deadpan expression on her average face. "Sharon Carter, aka Agent 13. Born in Richmond, Virginia to Harrison and Amanda Carter, on June 25, 1979. She joined Shield when she was twenty and quickly rose through the ranks. She _is_ one of their best field agents and was assigned as Captain Rogers protection shortly after the Battle of New York." She tapped another set of keys, bringing up Captain Rogers' information. "Steven Grant Rogers, aka Captain America — among other aliases, but Captain America is his most well known — was born in Brooklyn, New York to Sarah and Joseph Rogers on July 4, 1918. His father died in May of that year from mustard gas while serving in WWI. His mother later died when he was eighteen of tuberculosis. When he was twenty-four he was selected for Project: Rebirth and received Dr. Abraham Erskine's super solider serum. In 1945—"

"I know the history, Romanova!" Dmitri said. She snapped the lid of the laptop close. "I don't understand why you are bringing up their biographies. You have the information and—"

"You didn't do your job, Dmitri! You didn't give me Carter's information, only Rogers' and not that. Just a picture and where he lived. You didn't tell me he left the studio, just that he arrived. Your sole job is to keep me alive and give me information and if I need it, to extract me from a dangerous situation."

"This is my first assignment and—"

"Excuses get spies killed," she hissed "First assignment, hundredth assignment. A handler is a vital partner to the spy in the field. We have our job, gather information, eliminate our target. Our handler does the research we don't have time to do. Our handler scouts the locations we don't have time to scout. They _handle_ things. Hence you are a handler."

"I'm sorry—"

"Apologies get spies killed too." She rubbed her temples. "I should call Stalyenko and get you replaced." She looked at him, folding her arms beneath her bosom. "But Rogers has already seen your face and if I swap you out now, things could get harry and I'm not looking forward to that." She watched Dmitri swallow, his shoulders relaxing a little. "But I _expect_ better from you Dmitri. Much better. Otherwise I will tell Stalyenko about you and I will let him deal with you."

"Yes, Romanova," he said. She smiled, patting his cheek and handing him back his bag of chips. "Thank you."

"Monitor him, while I go take a shower," she said as she lifted the laptop lid again and walked further in the back of the studio.

* * *

The water hissed, hot and scalding, from the shower head and turning her skin pink. It was luxuriating, bathing in such hot water. She ran her fingers through her hair, scrubbing her scalp with her nails. Her cat suit was ruined; she had spares. The shampoo was something subtle, fresh linen or morning breeze. She worked it into a thick lather before rinsing her hair again and applying more shampoo, wanting to get the stink of old energy drink out of her hair. The Red Room taught her to never use scents for her every day routine. People remember scents and scents lingered in a room long after someone left. In shorts, scents could get you caught.

She figured Madame B would make an exception for not wanting to smell like sour energy drink. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back into the hot stream and worked the shampoo lather out of her red locks. She checked her hair again, and then added the conditioner and washed the rest of her body. The soap was some lotion containing one, and she ran her hands over her lithe form. Her fingers touching all her secret places. She wondered what Rogers' hands would feel like along her body; touching her with reverence and devotion. It had been a while since a man touched her — since anyone touched her like that really — and she was almost starved for such caresses. Of course, men made her flinch internally. She was only fourteen when she had her first man. The Red Room felt that in order to be proper seductresses they had to be broken in. That experience turned her off from men. Katerina, another Black Widow hopeful, showed her what touches should feel like, how to coax such pleasure and intimacy.

Natasha closed her eyes, tears leaking from beneath her lids as she remembered driving the knife into Katerina's gut during the battle royale. She learned then that love was for children. Since then, she guarded her heart: even with her dear husband Alexi she was guarded. Love was for children and sex was a weapon. The only one that came close to cracking that mantra was James, but their tryst was short lived as Department X took him away and she never saw him again.

But Rogers… there was something about Rogers. Maybe it's because she saw the sketch of her in his sketchbook or maybe it was because he tried to flirt only to realize he was out of his depth with her. He had this innocence, a little lost lamb aura about him. It could just be because he was her target and getting into his pants was the fastest way to complete her objective. Still, she would be a fool to deny that he was devilishly handsome. She dragged her hand down her body, fingers slipping between her legs to tease the sensitive flesh. A whimper escaped her throat, her hips rolling as she delved her fingers deeper into her core, thumb pressing against her sensitive nub. A gasp escaped her throat as she imagined what those plush lips felt like against her neck, imagined his hands trailing over her body and touching her most intimate places. She wondered what his face looked like twisted in ecstasy. She slammed her hand against the wall and swore. "Love's for children," she growled. She would not be compromised. Couldn't afford to be compromised. She had a mission and she had a flawless record and she'd be damned if she fucked it up now.

Ignoring the warming ache between her legs as she pulled her fingers from herself, she finished washing (scrubbing until her skin was raw to get rid of that dumpster stink) and got out of the shower. The towel was plush, smelling of laundry soap and fabric softener. She ran it along her body, wringing out her hair and slipped into her pajamas. Her reflection in the mirror stared back and she sighed. The woman in the glass looked worn and tired, the life of a Russian super spy wearing on her tattered soul. Taking a cotton ball, she applied the make up remover and began to scrub at her face until all the ugly blemishes and freckles and rough spots appeared. The girl behind the mask of Black Widow, a girl with a stolen childhood. Abused, broken, remolded into a weapon with no purpose, no place in the world, caked in the blood of innocents and foes alike. Her ledger was dripping red, saturated with the stuff. She and James were the crown jewels of the Russian Intelligence apparatus.

Staring back at her true face, she wondered if she could have led a different life. If Ivan had never found her and taken her away from her rundown and broken home. If he had never raised her in the Red Room, a scared frightened girl with big dreams of being a prima ballerina in the Russian ballet. She wondered what her life would have been like if things had been different. Would she be a wife? Making borscht for her husband. Would she be a mother? Her hand fell to her stomach, her broken ruined womb where no child would grow. Tears stung angry and hot at the corner of her eyes. A child trumped a mission, and the Red Room couldn't have that. So, they took it away from her, without even her consent. Apart of the graduation ceremony, they had told her, so she could take her place as Black Widow.

"Romanova?" Dmitri asked, knocking on the door. "You almost done in there?"

"I am," she said, putting some moisturizer on her face and gathering up her dirty catsuit. She opened the door and dumped the soiled garment in his hands. "Clean it for me please?" she asked, giving him a little smile. Swallowing, he nodded and stepped aside, and she went back to the monitoring station. Rogers wasn't in his living room or kitchen. He was in his bathroom, brushing his teeth, wearing a t-shirt and boxers. She arched a brow, appreciating the view of his comely ass. He spat and rinsed, wiping his face with a towel and staring at his reflection. She frowned, recognizing that look he had for she had just seen it on her own face: tired, worn, dejected, wondering if this life they led was even worth it. He washed his hands and ran his damp fingers through his hair. He left the bathroom and she looked at the bedroom camera, watching him sit on the bed and pull out his bible.

"He's religious," she muttered, watching him read a few chapters, rubbing the beads of the rosary between his thumb and index finger, before putting it back into the drawer of the nightstand and crawling into bed. He lay on his side, staring at the pictures. She watched him touch the middle picture and then kiss two fingers and press it against the lips of the woman. She read his lips: _goodnight Peggy_, was what he had said before he closed his eyes and went to sleep. She wondered who Peggy was. An hour later, Dmitri came back over, holding a mug of coffee.

"You should get some sleep Romanova," he said, sipping his coffee. "I'll watch him."

"Alright," she said, getting up. She put her hand on his shoulder briefly before heading off to bed, her mind abuzz with questions about Captain Steve Rogers.

* * *

Sleep never came easy to her. She tossed and turned, muttering in her sleep, as her body curled and uncurled. She sat up with a gasp, the night and the silence pressing in around her. Shadows drifted in the corners, shades of her memories, demons of her past. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, biting her lip and digging her nails into her thighs to ground herself in reality. When she opened her eyes, the darkness greeted her, void of the phantoms of her mind. Sleep would elude her for the rest of the night, so she got up and slipped her robe on. On cat silent feet, she went to the monitoring station, Dmitri gone. Rolling her eyes and making mental to scold him later, she got some fresh coffee and sat down in the chair to watch Rogers' sleep.

Only he wasn't sleeping. He was tossing and turning, gripping his pillow tight enough she was afraid he'd rip it. His face contorted in a painful grimace and if she leaned in close she could see sweat beading at his hairline. A heartbeat later, he sat up with a gasp, chest rising and falling. She watched him drag a hand down his face as he flopped back against his pillow; she noted the sweat stain around the collar of his t-shirt. Sympathy coiled in her chest or maybe it was empathy, for she understood all too well what it was like to be unable to sleep. Sipping her coffee, she ran a hand through her hair, watching him toss and turn as he tried to find a comfortable position but, in the end, gave up. She watched him get dress in sweats and an underarmor shirt before leaving his apartment. Frowning, she sat here watching the monitors for a little bit before getting breakfast and doing her own morning work out routine.

Dressed in yoga pants, fuzzy socks, a sports bra and tank top, she plopped in front of the monitors with a bowl of cereal. Rogers had returned and was getting into the shower. She gave a low whistle, admiring the contours of his muscles, the miles of creamy skin that ran down — unblemished — his back. She smirked at the sight of his ass, round as a peach and tight as a drum head. He turned the water in and waited a few minutes until steam billowed out over the top before stepping in. She turned the sound on, hearing the hiss of the water. The frontal view of his body was just as good as the backside. Bulging pecs and biceps, a tight eight back of abs and he was well endowed. Pleasure pooled in her groin as she easily imaged him hard and wanting. He started washing. "_Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance. Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Caught in a bad romance. Rah rah ah-ah-ah! Ro mah ro-mah-mah. Gaga oh-la-la! Want your bad romance!_"

She stopped mid bite and stared, surprised he was singing Lady Gaga. Not only that but he was singing verbatim and at the perfect pitch. He even danced, moving his hips and shoulders to the imagined beat as he lathered his hair and scrubbed his body. He paused only to rinse his face. She resumed her breakfast, smirking over the fact that she knew that Captain America sang in the shower. Smiling, she watched him finish his shower, dry and dress (in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt)a. He made himself breakfast: six eggs, an entire pound of bacon, four slices of toast (with butter) and a tall glass of milk. He sat down at the dinette table (that looked too small for his large meal and his equally large frame). He turned on the tv and worked with a methodic steadiness through his breakfast. He even mopped up the bacon grease and egg yolk with his last slice of bread and down the glass of milk in three large swallows. Rogers gave a new meaning to eating like a horse. She set her empty cereal bowl next to her coffee cup as she watched him clean the dishes.

"Morning, Romanova," Dmitri said around a yawn as he came over to her.

"Dmitri," she said, watching Rogers return to his room. He opened his closet and pulled out a button-down shirt, which he put on as if he was on autopilot. He brushed his teeth, shaved, and left his apartment.

"Wonder where he's going," Dmitri asked as she stood up and pulled on a light jacket, pulling off her fuzzy socks and putting on a pair of slip-on flats.

"Here, idiot," she said as she gathered her hair into a ponytail. "Probably going to demand why I wasn't here yesterday and wanting his private lesson I promised him."

"But this is just a cover… we aren't actually a dance studio," Dmitri said. She glared at him, applying some red chapstick to her lips and mascara. She had no time to put her face on, but she figured it was better this way, letting him see her natural (or as natural as she would let anyone see her).

She exited the back and looked around the studio before turning on the lights and pulling out a stereo and sweeping down the floor in preparation for her only student (though she planned to get more, a good cover had a grain of truth after all). She watched the people walk pass the studio, it was only eight in the morning, but New York still buzzed with activity. People still packed the sidewalk, pressed in light sardines. A few people came in and she signed them up for lessons. She smiled at one mother with her twin girls dressed in tutus and a promise to show them how to be ballerinas that afternoon. It hurt though, realizing those girls wanted to learn ballet in the purest of innocence, that they'll never be killers with the grace of a swan. An elderly couple came in, wanting to learn to the salsa and several young couples came in asking for tango lessons. Several more, little girls and a few boys signed up for afternoon ballet lessons.

It was ten o'clock by the time Rogers came back with an almost finished hot dog in hand. She wrinkled her nose, surprised he could eat one of those street sold hot dogs. Smiling, she exited the studio and leaned against the window. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes and lightened his hair. She caught several women (and a handful of men) glance at him as they walked passed them on the street. "Hey, strange," she said, her easy smile widening. "Fancy seeing you here."

His eyes widened, and he shoved the rest of his hot dog into his mouth, mustard and a bit of relish on the corner of his mouth. He swallowed and sucked the ketchup off his thumb. "Hi." He looked at the brightly lit interior of the dance studio. "You open? For real?"

"For real." She tapped the corner of her mouth. "You got a little something here."

"Oh?" he glanced at his faint reflection in the glass and wiped off the mustard and relish. "Thanks."

"No problem." She ran her tongue along her teeth. An airplane droned over head and he looked up, squinting against the early summer sun. Cars honked and the babble of voices seemed to increase in volume, as if the cacophony of the city was personally offended by the silence between them.

"So are you gonna explain to me why you were closed last night," he said, putting his hands on his hips. It showed off his narrow waist and she had to snap her eyes up to his face: it was rude to stare after all. She took a step closer to him, tilting her head up to better look into his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. A light breeze came up, bringing the sour scents of the streets and noxious fumes of car exhaust, but beneath it all was cedar and cypress. He clearly had some cologne and the smell made her skin tingle. "We're pretty new and I had to buy various CDs for the lessons and some skirts." She bit her nail, inwardly smirking when his eyes fell to it.

"Oh." He nodded in understanding. "Makes sense. You're uh—"

"Janitor. Second cousin once removed. His mother wanted me to show him how to run a proper business."

"Yeah, he uh… had me sign up for lessons." He flushed and glanced at his feet. "Lessons are still private?"

"For you" — she smiled, taking another step forward to narrow the gap between them, he swallowed again, color rising to his cheeks — "always."

"Good, good… I'll uh… be back later then for the lesson." He gave her a shy smile and took a few steps back. She grabbed his hand. It was large and strong with rough clauses on his fingers and palm.

"Wait," she said. "There's nobody here and well, we can do a lesson now." She let go of his hand, clasping her hands behind her back. "If you aren't busy that is."

He puffed his cheeks out in a sigh, watching the people and cars go by them. Another breeze came and ruffled his blond hair; he folded his arms and his biceps strained against the cotton of his shirt. "Alright," he said after a while, turning to face her with a little smile. "I'll accept your lesson."

"Excellent," she said, opening the door to the studio. He walked in and she followed, the sounds of the city becoming muted and the smell of floor polish and dry wall filled her nose. She pointed to th coat rack and told him to take his shoes off as she went to get a binder with a sign in sheet and a pen. She watched him sign his name: Steve G. Rogers. "Welcome, Steve," she said as she snapped the binder closer. "I'm Natasha, and I'll be your instructor today."

* * *

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	2. II

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

There was a nervous awkwardness that permeated the ambiance of the studio. The Red Room taught her ballet (as her main focus), as well as several other classical dances: foxtrot, waltz (specifically the Viennese waltz), tango, quickstep, salsa and East Coast swing. The waltz was the most common dance she had to perform on missions as most people of sophistication knew that dance. Yet, she never been expected to teach anyone how to dance before. In a way it was good that Rogers was the guinea pig in this cover operation.

He stood by the coat rock in his socks, awkwardly rocking on the balls of his feet, glaze fixed to the ceiling. She went to the desk and set the binder and pen down. "What shoe size do you wear?"

"Uh… a ten."

A smile curled on her lips. Big hands, big feet, big dick. She pulled out the flat dance shoes. "Here," she said, walking over to him and handing the shoes over. He arched a brow. "Dance shoes. First rule of dance: always wear the proper shoes."

"Okay." He put the shoes on, tying the laces in nice little bows. "What's the next rule?"

"Don't step on your partner's toes," she said, smiling a little when he flushed. "So, is there a specific dance you want to learn?" she asked, going over to the stack of CDs she had and going through them. Silence fell between them, and she watched him end up watching the people that walked pass the studio. "Steve?" she asked. He looked at her, expression earnest and open. "Why do you want to learn to dance?"

He puffed his cheeks out in a sigh. "I… well, I never… I don't know how to dance," he said. "And well, it's something I'd like to learn."

"Alright," she said, "that's perfectly okay. Some people just want to learn to dance so they have that notch on their belt" — she watched him flinch at that, wondering if his desire to learn to dance had a deeper reasoning behind it than the one he had given her — "and some just like to dance. It doesn't matter. Do you have a specific dance in mind that you want to learn, or would you rather learn something simple like the waltz?"

"Do you know the Lindy Hop?" he asked. She wrinkled her nose. "Y'know, the Lindy Hop." He looked at her as if she was slow. "Something like this" — he started snapping his fingers and humming a quick swing beat, her eyes widen — "that's the Lindy Hop."

"Oh!" she nodded, understanding what he wanted now. "Yeah, I know swing. We can do that." She pushed the CDs around until she found a big band album. She stuck it into the stereo she had sitting on the floor kiddy-corner to the desk. She tucked the remote into her waistband. "C'mon."

"Swing?" he asked, following her onto the dance floor. "It's the Lindy Hop, not swing," he grumbled as she put his right on her hip (she noticed that he kept it a little higher, well off her ass).

"It's been renamed to East Coast Swing in the dance world," she said, fishing the remote from her waistband and turning the stereo on. The brassy blare of trumpets, the low rumble of trombones and the high wail of saxophones guided by the quick pace beat of snare and bass drums filled studio. Recognition brighten in his eyes and she couldn't help but smile as she realized this must've brought back memories for him. "Ready?" she asked.

"Wha — I—" he didn't have time to finish as she began to move, leading him stumbling across the floor. He was a terrible dancer. He watched his feet, yelping out a sorry whenever he stepped on her toes. He was also fighting her with the lead, which led to more bruised toes than necessary. As the song went on, he got more and more frustrated. When it ended she paused the music, so they could take a breather. "I told you I have two left feet," he grumbled. "And I'm terrible at the Lindy Hop."

"Everyone has to start somewhere." She offered him an encouraging smile. "So, third rule of dance," she said and waited until he looked at her, "trust your partner."

"I hardly know you," he said, "how am I supposed to trust you?"

She bit her lip. He had a point. This entire dance lesson was a sham, it was just a ruse to allow her to get close to him, so she could kill him. She kept her face impassive. "You're right, you have no reason to trust me as a person," she said, "but I'm your dance teacher, trust me to not lead you incorrectly."

"I feel like there is something you aren't telling me," he said. She blinked, wondering if he was getting suspicious of everything. If he was, then that would be bad, and she may just have to kill him now. It would be messy and rather public, but it would be her only option: she would not fail this mission because she happened to like him a little bit.

"There is a lot I'm not telling you Steve," she said, putting on an easy smile and closing the gap between them, "but I don't expect you want your dance teacher's entire life story now do you?"

His cheeks burned. "No. I don't." He sighed and shook out his arms and legs. "Okay, let's do this again." He smirked. "I can do this all day."

"Sure." She placed his hand on her hip again and switched it to a slower song. "Fourth rule: don't look at your feet, look at your partner's eyes or face."

He nodded and this time he let her lead. He still kept glancing down at his feet, still mumbled sorry whenever he stepped on her toes, but he had vastly improved between the two songs. She paused the music again, watching him walk off with tense shoulders. "I'm so terribly sorry."

"Don't worry," she said. "C'mon, let's try again."

"Maybe I should go," he said as she grabbed his hands again and turned the music on. They didn't move for the first measure or two of music. "I'm terrible at this."

"You just lack confidence." She began to move, staring into his eyes. They were vivid pale blue with flecks of pale green. "Describe my face."

"Huh?" he looked at her, transfixed by her request. "What?" She smirked, realizing that he was dancing better when he wasn't thinking about what he was doing.

"Trust me, Steve, describe my face. Don't think about dancing, think about me." She led him across the room, their bodies moving in synchronized harmony. "Go on."

He licked his lips. "Your eyes are green."

"Do better. Do you have a hobby?" The music crescendo, loud and blaring and he twirled her around, pulling her close to his chest. She could feel his heart beat against her palm, the scent of his cologne billowing up around them, his cheeks flushed from the quick steps.

"Yeah, I draw," he said, "and paint when I get a chance."

"Tell me how you'd paint me," she said. He nodded, stepping on her toes as his nerves took over. "Go on."

"I'd start with your eyes," he said, "use a small brush. Paint them green — not plain green, more like a viridian with some emerald. Add a lighter shade for highlights and lighting."

She grinned, feeling her cheeks grow hot. He was dancing better, and they moved on into the next song. "Go on, what else?" she asked. He extended his arm and she twirled into his chest.

"Your hair I'd probably mix my own red. A little vermillion with some red ochre for just the right look. For the highlights I'd used a coppery tone. Press the brush flat against the canvas" — he dipped her — "and drag down in a zigzag pattern to capture the waves of your hair."

"Sounds like a lovely painting." Her heart was pounding, her palms sweaty and butterflies fluttered in her stomach. They were close enough that their noses almost touched. His breath smelled like hot dog and she wanted to kiss him to see if she could taste it on his tongue. "Anything else?"

He hooded his eyes. "I'd used peach and cream to get your skin tone just right and a mix of rouge and the palest of rose for your lips and clam shell pink — very faint — for your cheeks." A roguish smile spread across his lips. "That's how I'd paint you."

She gulped and pushed against him, breaking free of his hold. "Good job, Steve," she said and trotted over to the stereo to turn it off. "You improved… a lot in this session. Maybe—"

"Tomorrow?" he asked, hopeful.

Her hands shook, and she balled them into fists. This was… she wouldn't say bad. She had been attracted to targets before. There had been targets that made her heart pound and butterflies flutter in his stomach. Targets that had flattered her, showered her with compliments on her grace and beauty. None, however, made her feel this _special_. He made her feel special, as if she was more than just an assassin, more than just a spy. As if she was valuable person, someone worth giving a damn about. "No," she said, "we're closed tomorrow. What's tomorrow?" she glanced up at the mirror to watch his face fall, and then his lips twist into a thoughtful frown.

"Tomorrow's Wednesday," he said, "so… next lesson is Thursday?"

"Yeah." She stood up, smiling at him. "Thursday morning at ten."

He gave her a charming half smile. "I'll see you there," he said as he put on his shoes and left. She sank down on the mats and groaned, she couldn't be developing feelings for him. This… this was unprecedented. Falling in love — no she wasn't falling in love with him. Love didn't exist. Love was for children. She wasn't a child. She was Black Widow, and just because Steve Rogers said some nice things about how he'd paint her didn't mean she was falling in love with him. She closed her eyes. "I'm Black Widow, I have no purpose, I have no place. I'm nothing and no one, a spider in the shadows." Opening her eyes, the empty dance studio greeted her. She turned on the stereo.

* * *

The thin walls of a New York apartment building never changed. The people yelling and shouting about this and that, the typical plagues of couples, hadn't changed in seventy years either. It was still the same. The lingo and current events changed, but the nature of them hadn't. The music still blared loud and noisy from the younger generation while the older yammered to shut off that racket. Kids played in the corners of the floors by the stair wells, jacks and baseball cards replaced with video games. Steve smiled at the youngsters as he passed.

He reached his floor, most people living here had left for work hours ago. He fished his key from his pocket and inserted it into the door. "Captain Rogers?"

He turned to see Agent 13, who he learned was named Sharon and was assigned to protect him. He told her it wasn't necessary, he was capable of taking care of himself, but she insisted that it was her job. "Sharon, hi." He twisted the key in the lock and opened the door. "And please, call me Steve."

"Whatcha got there?" she asked, nodding to the easel under his arm and the large paper bag in hand. He grinned with a flush.

"Oh, just some art supplies. Want to capture the modern New York." He shrugged. "It helps me relax."

"I didn't know you were an artist," she said, a smile curving her lips. "You have to show me some of your work."

"An artist never shares until it's finished," he said as he hefted the easel up higher. They stood there in the hall. It was awkward, and he could have sworn he'd seen Sharon somewhere before but couldn't quiet put his finger on it. He had only met her last night, but he felt like he knew her from before the ice. It was impossible. She was born sometime during his deep freeze, but still this uncanny nagging feeling told him otherwise.

"Do you want to get some coffee some time? I know some nice spots in Central Park that may spark some inspiration."

"Oh." He bit his lip. "That's very generous of you Sharon, but I'm fine on my own. Inspiration is a little bit of everything. It normally strikes when I see an interesting design or pattern, or I have a feeling I want to work through. The creative process helps me focus my thoughts." Or I have a beautiful dance teacher that I want to put on paper. Natasha had been haunting his mind since he met her. His fingers itched to sketch her, draw her, paint her and bring her to life the way only an artist could. He never felt like this with Peggy. Never had this _urge_ to draw Peggy the way he wanted to draw Natasha. Natasha was an enigma that he couldn't figure out and he always did prefer painting the mysterious.

"If I order a large pizza would you split it with me?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe of her apartment. He noticed she wasn't wearing scrubs, the nurse façade completely dropped. "My treat."

He licked his lips and set his art supplies right by the inner wall of his apartment. "Never let it be said, I turned down free food." He grinned. "Make it two larges and I'll pay you for the second pie." The painting can wait. Now that Sharon mentioned food he realized how hungry he is.

"Any place in particular?" she asked. "I'm a Virginia girl, not really familiar with the pizza scene in New York. Figured a Brooklyn boy like you may help with that." She bumped her hip against his.

He laughed, heat rising to his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm a bit dated on the New York pizza scene, but one of the places for pizza back in my day was Totonno's on Neptune Avenue," he said, "been going there since I was a kid." He settled his hands on his hips.

"I'll make a call then. Any particular toppings?" she asked. There was a shriek of laughter from the other end of the hall, he saw a group of kids playing with Avenger action figures. The boy with the Hulk one had defeated the boy with the Captain America one.

"You know, the Hulk… isn't that bad. Decent enough fella," he said. Sharon nodded as she looked up the pizzeria. "As for toppings, I'm okay with anything but anchovies and pineapple." He wrinkled his nose. "Who ever thought of putting fruit on pizza is insane."

Sharon chuckled. "So, a large pepperoni and a large everything?" she asked. He nodded. "Good."

He slipped back into his apartment, closing the door as he headed to the spare room he had. The lighting was great, and he set up the easel and put on a blank canvas, before going to get a glass of milk and a couple protein bars. He busied himself sketching Natasha's profile, the natural sunlight pouring in from the window hitting the canvas just right for him to see what he was doing but not cast his shadow. It sparked an idea on how he'd want to do the lighting for the piece. The sketch finished, he took a step back to admire it. Looking at it, he filled in the colors in his mind: the pink of her lips, the blush of her cheeks and the splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose and along her cheekbones. The way her green eyes sparkled when she smiled, the corners crinkling in delight. How her hair fell in cascading waves of vermillion. He took his pencil and dragged it along the canvas in a wavy pattern, adding more waves to her hair.

Tucking the pencil behind his ear, he grabbed the bag and rummaged through the through it, pulling out his palette, a bag of brushes, the watercolor paint set (he liked using watercolors for landscapes), his pastels, and acrylic paints. He never used oil paints, as they were too expensive back before the ice. Checking his watch, he figured he wouldn't have time to start on the painting and he still needed to decide how he'd paint it. He had 180 pigments to choose from (it was the largest acrylic paint set the store had), with thirty shades for each of the six colors. If he couldn't get the image he wanted in his head on canvas with this array of colors, he was truly out of practice. "Another day," he said, putting his paints in the shadowy corner of the room. He'd have to get a canvas sheeting for the floor incase he spilled any paint. He didn't have any old clothes per se, so maybe a shopping trip to the thrift store was in order. He'll ask Sharon were the nearest one was.

Taking his brushes, he went to his kitchen and grabbed two mason jars, sticking the brushes in one and leaving the other one empty. He set them down when he heard a knock on the door. "Coming!" he trotted over and opened it, Sharon smiling at him with two pizzas in her hand. "Perfect timing."

"Impeccable, right?" she said as he took the pizzas from her and allowed her to slip into his apartment. The fresh smell of pizza was making his mouth water, and he realized that it had been nearly seventy years since he had a slice of pizza from Totonno's. It was a bitter pill to swallow as he realized the last time he had pizza from Totonno's was with Bucky, just before the war broke out.

"Last time I had this pizza I was a foot shorter and at least a hundred and fifty pounds lighter," he said, heading over to the kitchen counter and setting the boxes down. "Dirt poor as well." He flipped the lid of the box open and inhaled. "Brings back memories."

"Good memories I hope," Sharon said as he got plates.

"You can only have good memories when it comes to pizza," he said, grinning as he handed over a plate and pulled out a slice for her and two for him. He was a New Yorker born and bred, folding his slice taco-style before taking a bite. He groaned, eyes rolling up. Sharon chuckled.

"Well, I guess the saying is true," she said.

"What?" he asked around a mouthful. In the back of his mind he could hear his mother scolding him for talking with his mouth full in front of a lady. He swallowed. "What saying?"

Sharon blushed, picking at the crust of her pizza. "Oh, that the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

He blinked, then laughed. "Well, when your metabolism runs four times faster than average, you kinda have to know when and where your next meal is gonna be."

She gave him an awkward smile. "That's… not what I meant…" she mumbled and took a bite of her pizza. He frowned, chewing. "So, since my cover is blown, I might as well come clean with you about who I am."

"I thought you did last night?" he set his plate down and got two glasses. "Milk or water?"

"Milk's fine." He nodded and poured her a glass. "That's… that's the business end of things, Steve." She smiled as she took the glass from him.

"What's the other end?" he asked and took a sip of his milk, leaning against the counter.

"My name is Sharon Carter," she said. He nodded: Carter was a common last name, there should be no reason he should recognize it as being unique. Sharon sighed. "Peggy Carter is my aunt."

The air caught in his lungs, his throat constricting as he heard the name. "Peggy…" he forced himself to breathe and he set his milk down before he dropped it. It made sense now, why he thought Sharon was so familiar. She reminded him of Peggy in a lot of ways, so much that it was almost uncanny at times. "I loved her."

"She always spoke so highly of you," she said, "I remember when I was little I'd watch the old news reels of you and… she felt very charmolypi."

"I missed our date… eight o'clock at the Stork Club" — he let a shaky breath — "she was gonna teach me how to dance." The wood floor was more interesting than looking at Sharon. "She told me not to be late and said she'll have the band play something slow, so I didn't step on her feet."

"She never stopped loving you, Steve. It took her a while to let someone else in."

"Some days… I want to go back, change things, so—"

"She wouldn't have wanted you to do that. She always told me that you would have made the exact same choice if you had a chance to redo it."

Would I? A bitter smile twisted his face. "Do you know where she is? It says she's living in London, now."

"Actually, she's down in DC," Sharon said. "In a nursing home. She's uh… not doing so well." Sharon gave him a bright smile. "But you know Peggy, stubborn as an ox. You should visit her sometimes, she'll like that."

He pressed his finger to his lips. A part of him wanted to visit Peggy, connect with her again — she was all he had left of his past after all — but he didn't want to open old wounds, wounds that needed healing. "I know." He picked up his pizza, but his appetite left him.

"Hey, don't… don't beat yourself up," she said. "I told you because I didn't want you to find out from someone else. I wanted be honest with you" — she gave a little smile — "if that's okay."

"No, I rather you be honest," he said. "I just… it's a lot to take in." He tore off a bit of crust and ate it. It seemed to do the trick and he wanted to eat again. Silence pressed in around them, a bit melancholic and uncomfortable, but he forced it down, locking it away in a compartment in his mind. "Thanks for the pizza," he said, lifting up his half-eaten slice. "How much do I owe you for the second one."

"Don't worry about it," she said, a little smile on her face. "I got a discount."

* * *

Sharon ended up staying longer than he had expected. Soon, they were swapping stories about Peggy. She was amazed about some of the ones Peggy had toned down for her. She didn't eat much of the pizzas and he ended up finishing the one with everything and saving the one with pepperoni. They drifted to the couch, beers in hand and she turned on the tv, telling him about the new shows. He marveled at it, telling her how something like this wasn't even possible in his day. "A lot of tv shows during the decades after the war were set there," she said, "my mom loved _Hogan's Heroes_."

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah. It was about a prisoner of war camp and Hogan was the leader of the little group of Allied soldiers imprisoned there. They kept outwitting their German guards and helping prisoners escape. It was humor and heart. A fair amount of WWII movies were also made. I remember reading about _Saving Private Ryan_, they had WWII vets in the audience and a lot of them said that the realism was almost too real."

"I was on those beaches," he said, watching the sitcom play. He wasn't following the story, mind drifting back to that day in June. "It was just… just after Bucky fell." He swallowed. "I was to lead the boys onto the beach, the rest of the Commandos were to sneak around back and get the Germans in a pincher movement." He rubbed his with his finger and thumb. "I can still hear their screams and the gunfire, the smell of the sea and blood and death. The give of the wet sand beneath my boots and how cold the water was." The sounds of the beaches echoed in his ears, his own shouts of encouragement to the young men he was leading to their doom, the rat-ta-tat-tat of the German guns; echoed in his ears downing out his thoughts.

"Is it hard? Having a memory like yours?" she asked, resting her hand on his knee. A shaky breath escaped him as he tipped his head back to swallow down his tears. "Steve?"

"Yeah. I've always had a good memory, but after the serum its like I remember everything so clearly, but it doesn't go away." He pointed to the tv. "The images are as clear as that."

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"It's okay." He gave her a little smile. "Just got them rattlin' around in my head. I'll be fine, Sharon."

"If you need someone to talk to, I can direct you to the VA center here in New York, I heard they have a real good therapy program for those suffering from PTSD."

"PTSD?"

She nodded. "Shell shock, battle fatigue," she elaborated.

"Oh." A little chuckle escaped him. "Nah. I'm good. Shield evaluated me for that after I woke up. Said I was fine."

"It can take a while to manifest, Steve —" she stopped when she heard a phone ring. Steve jumped out of his seat and fished for the phone in his pocket.

"Tony said to touch them gently," he mumbled, but grimaced when the phone cracked and went blank. "Damn it. I'm never gonna get the hang of these phones." He jerked his head up and looked at the door. "You expecting someone?" he asked Sharon as he went to the door and answered it. "Barton?" he frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"C'mon, get into your tights. We got a situation downtown. A group calling themselves the Wrecking Crew are trying to rob a bank." He tugged at his arm. "Plus, Tony said you'd probably break your phone _again_."

"That I did." He held up the ruined device. Clint sighed, finally noticing Sharon just to the left of Steve.

"Am I interrupting a date?" he asked.

"No," Steve said, Sharon nodding in agreement. "We were just having some pizza and talking about—"

"A mutual friend," Sharon said. She smiled at Steve as she slipped passed Clint. "Have a good nigh Steve," she said with a little wave as she walked down the hall to her apartment.

"She's my bodyguard."

Clint looked him up and down. "Uh-huh. C'mon, get your shield big guy. Tony's probably gonna get antsy if we don't show up soon."

"Alright," he said and went to his room to get changed into his uniform and grab his shield.

* * *

Five blocks of downtown Manhattan had been secured by the time he and Clint showed up. For some reason Clint insisted they climbed a small building to rendezvous with Tony. The Wrecking Crew was a four-man gang with bulging muscles and demolition equipment. "About time you showed up," Tony said, zooming overhead. "There's only three of us, so if one goes off to get someone then we're done two guys."

"Where's Banner?" he asked, adjusting the crotch of his uniform. Tony had graciously given him another uniform, a more armoured version of the one his father made seventy years ago. He liked it, but there was still some tight spots — especially in the crotch — that he needed adjusting. "Shouldn't he be here?"

"Do you really want the Hulk doing more smashing?" Tony asked, coming to hover over them. "Plus, I figured the three of us can handle four guys."

"What's the plan, Cap?" Clint asked, fingering the fletching of his knocked arrow. Steve looked down at the four men causing havoc. One had drills for hands, another a wrecking ball, a third had a crowbar and the fourth was going at things bare handed. The police had warded off this section of the city and they should be able to keep everything contained.

"Tony, you take the guy with the drill hands. Clint, subdue the one with the crowbar and the bare-handed fighter. I'll take the guy with the wrecking ball."

"Excellent!" Tony shot off towards his assigned target, Clint stayed put and he jumped down, grunting at the impact. The looked at the police officer.

"I want you and your men focusing on removing civilians from the sector and keeping civilians out of this quadrant," he said.

"Right away Captain," the officer said and started relaying orders to protect the civilians. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted the straps of his shield (and the crotch of his pants, he'll need to talk to Tony after this to get that readjusted) and charged pell-mell into battle. The guy with the wrecking ball laughed and swung the heavy ball at him. The vibrainum absorbed the impact but he could still feel the force and it jarred him, his teeth rattling in his skull. A lesser man would be dead or at least suffering from a broken arm.

He wasn't a lesser man. With a grunt he pushed back, muscles coiling and springing forth sending his opponent staggering back — off balance. He followed up with a shield throw, hitting the man in collarbone. A groan came from him as he fell down; his shield returned and he caught it, before rushing over to deliver the knock out punch. The large metal ball came swinging at him, colliding with his side. It sent him flying, pain lacing his entire side from sternum to spine. "Guys, he hits hard," he grunted. He stood up, trying to figure out how to deal with the wrecking ball and subdue his opponent. It hurt to breathe, and he looked at his chest, one side seemed higher than the other. Definitely broken ribs. He grimaced at that, knowing he'll have to go back to the tower for medical attention.

"You okay, Rogers?" Tony asked, as he zoomed overhead, dipping and dodging, shooting repulsor blasts at his opponent and staying well out of range.

"I'm fine," he said. His target came running at him, twirling the chain attached to the wrecking ball. Tossing his shield, he ran at the man and ducked beneath his guard as his shield sliced through the chain, the metal ball falling useless to the ground. Without his weapon, his opponent was at a disadvantage — but so was he. He wasn't as fast and was favoring his left side. Anyone would figure out that was a weak point and hone in on that, his opponent may be brutish but he wasn't a complete dunce.

Soon he was giving ground, backing up towards the perimeter, sweat beading at his brow. Each breath felt harder to take, the edges of his vision blackening and blurry. He worried he may have a punctured lung and the broken ribs weren't helping him. The other man swung at his head, he dodged but failed to see it as a feint and cried out when his opponent's other hand slammed into his injured left side. Tony and Clint's cries of alarm echoing in his ear piece. "I'm" — he dodged another attack, right arm wrapped around his side. He looked around for his shield and found it lying on the ground a few feet away. — "Fine." Shoving the pain down he bolted for his shield; his opponent hot on his heels. Sliding the last two feet or so, he scooped his shield up and rolled onto his back, tucking his legs up close to his body to protect himself as much as he could.

There was no blow. Peeking over the rim of his shield, he saw a woman in a black cat suit and vermillion locks cascading down around her shoulders. She looked familiar as she stood atop the twitching man hellbent on crushing him. "Thought you could use the help," she said, a half smirking tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Uh… thanks," he said, relaxing as she came over to help him to his feet. A gasp tore itself loose from his throat as he wrapped an arm around his side. "But I had it under control." She just gave him a teasing smile.

"Cap? Rogers? Steve!" Tony shouted in his ear. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Who's the girl?" he asked and zoomed over head to deliver the final blow to the opponent he was fighting. Steve and his mysterious feminine savor watched as Tony slammed his shoulder into the man and sent him flying only to crash into the pavement with a loud crunch.

"Black Widow," she said. "Captain." She ran towards the unarmed man, allowing Clint and Tony to focus on the man swinging the crowbar.

"She says her name is Black Widow," he said and watched her. Never had he seen such swan like grace transform into something deadly. Black Widow ducked and dodged, easily slipping into the man's guard — attacking and defending simultaneously — a few quick jabs to his chest and he went stumbling back. She leaped, thighs clamping around his head and using her momentum she brought him down. They struggled on the ground, until she was able to maneuver herself into an upright position and slam her fists into the sides of his neck. He heard the zapping sound of electricity and saw her opponent spasm and jerk beneath her before going still. Dirt smudged her cheek and she made it worse when she tried to wipe it away. The entire fight reminded him of a dance, a deadly ballet between two fighters. Heat pooled in his stomach and for a moment he forgot how bad his side hurt.

It was then he realized that Black Widow looked uncannily like his dance teacher. But he dismissed that idea, considering Natasha was lithe and petite and this woman just took down a man that was at least three hundred pounds of solid muscle in a matter of minutes and with relative ease. Clint finally got the man with the crowbar subdued and joined him on the ground along with Tony. "Thanks for the help," he said as Clint slipped his right arm over his shoulders.

"We had it under control though," Tony said, "even though you and your killer thighs—"

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said, a blithe smile on her lips, her eyes never leaving Steve. "How could I let Captain America get his ass kicked."

"I normally don't let bullies kick my ass," he said as he pulled away from Clint and took a step towards Black Widow, "but I figured I had a pretty little spider watching my back."

"So, you figured you step down from you're A game?"

"Yeah," he said an easy smile on his lips, "that's exactly it. Didn't want to steal your spotlight."

"I don't need to steal anyone's spotlight" — she took a step closer to him — "for I make my own."

"Well even heroes need a hero." She blushed, and he felt butterflies flutter in his stomach. "Will you be here next time?"

"If you need me, I'll be here."  
"What if I want you here?"

She ducked her head, those lovely crimson tresses hiding her face. When she looked up there was an enigmatic emotion in those brilliant green eyes of hers. "Maybe." She touched his arm before giving Tony and Clint a nod. "I must be going," she said and walked off. He watched her as she pushed her way through the ring of police offers and vanished into the darkness.

"Holy cow," he said, staring after her quite moonstruck.

"Who was that?" Clint asked.

"Well her name is Black Widow," Tony said. "Rogers? You seemed… twitterpated. Like Bambi when he saw that doe in the spring."

It seemed the pain came back at the sound of Tony's voice and it came back with a vengeance. He doubled over — Clint and Tony catching him — panting and groaning. "We need to get him back to medical."

The face plate on the Iron Man suit popped up. "Someone get an ambulance!" Tony shouted as he and Clint lead Steve through the crowd of police officers to the edge where paramedics were waiting. "Take him to Avengers Tower, we have an on-call medical staff."

"Of course, Iron Man!" one of the paramedic said as they loaded him into the ambulance. "Don't worry Cap, we've got you," the paramedic said. "Just hang in there."

"Right… hang…" he closed his eyes, mind consumed with the pain and the world went black.

* * *

**So I decided to leave it on a cliffhanger. **

**Save an author; leave a review. **

**Nemo et Nihil**


	3. III

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

A cat stare at her from a pile of garbage in the alleyway behind the dance studio. It was a small thing, leaving kittenhood and entering cathood, with black fur and bright yellow eyes. It mewed and took a few tentative steps towards her. "Hey there little guy," she whispered, holding out her hand for the cat to sniff. "You weren't born a stray, were you?" she asked when the cat butted her hand and she scratched it behind its ears. A car blared, sirens echoed, and a dog barked somewhere. The cat tense, ready to bolt into the shadows. She grabbed it by the scruff before it could and pulled it to her chest. "Shhh, shhh," she cooed, stroking its fur. "You're safe now." She pulled out her key and unlocked the studio's back door and slipped in.

Once inside, she turned the light on to inspect her new companion. The cat was in a sorry state: matted fur, cuts that looked infected, something nasty on its back paw, and gummy ooze around its eyes. She clicked her tongue. "Looks like you're going to the vet tomorrow," she said, and the kitten gave a pathetic mew. "I know, I don't like the doctor either, but you don't want to get sicker." She took the cat to the utility sink and with a damp rag and some warm water worked on cleaning as much of the gunk from the poor thing as she could.

"Romanova?" Dmitri asked, coming out of the shadows. She glanced over her shoulder to see him. "What do you got there?" he came over to the sink and peered down at the terrified kitten she was cleaning. "A cat?"

"Found it in the alley." The cat kitten squirmed in her hand, mewing insistently. "Go to the corner store and get a couple of cans of cat food."

"Why were you in the alley at this hour?" He looked her up and down. "Why are you in your catsuit?"

"Had a little intelligence gathering I had to see to this evening" — she ran the corner of the rag gently across the kitten's eyes; smiling at the memory of Steve. — "Dmitri, cat food."

"You aren't seriously keeping it?" he asked.

"Of course, I am," she said, once she finished cleaning the kitten. She unzipped her catsuit a bit further and tucked the poor creature into her suit, next to her breast. The kitten mewed, and she soothed it. It began to purr, understanding that it was safe now. She walked over to her cramped room in the back of the studio and sat on the bed. The kitten was sleeping against her, purring and kneading her breast, its sharp claws pricked her lightly. "You're safe now," she whispered, "Liho." She curled herself closer around the cat, trying to keep it warm from the coldness of the room. "I'll keep you warm."

Winter was a staple in Russia. The same way borscht and vodka were, so was winter. The KGB had taken her father last winter, and her grandmother passed away as soon as the frost set in. Volgograd was no place for a skinny little orphan girl, especially in winter. At night she would sleep curled up with the other street urchins, snuggled beneath tattered threadbare blankets. And in the morning, they'd pull broken down cardboard boxes over the ones with the pretty sheen of ice on their lashes and death pale cheeks before splintering off to find food.

Strangers either looked at her with disgust or pity, but never offered her anything in way of kindness. She learned which restaurants wouldn't chase her away from their dumpsters and which would, which stores had broken security cameras and lazy clerks, and which didn't. The concrete became her father and the winter her mother. Still, she was a strange one. She'd share her spoils with the younger orphans and the stray animals. While the other orphans would sneer and hit the younger kids or throw rocks and broken vodka bottles at the stray animals, she wouldn't. Even when she had nothing, she gave.

At night, during the huddles for survival, she pushed and shoved her way as close to the center as possible, taking some of the younger ones with her so they'd stay warm through the harsh winter nights. She held them close, tucking their hands and feet as close to her body as possible to prevent frostbite. The younger kids called her big sister, the older ones called her stupid. She lived on the streets for a year and by midwinter of her second year she had a small following of kids. They looked up to her and she taught them the ropes. The older orphans sneered at her misplaced compassion.

It was this misplaced compassion that allowed the Red Room to find her. One of her little brothers — as she came to call the kids that followed her — had a bad cough and needed medicine. She stole a watch from a fancy looking man and tried to pawn it off. Only the man followed her and asked for his watch back, praising her for her nimble fingers and ability to slip away undetected. He took her into a restaurant, bought her a meal and asked her if she wanted to be a ballerina.

"Romanova?" Dmitri called, jarring her out of her thoughts. The door creaked open and he came back with a bag of cat food. "I got your cat food."

"Thank you," she whispered and gently maneuvered the kitten out of her cat suit and onto her pillow. It gave a soft squeak, which she soothed with a few pets and soft words before sitting up and taking the bag from Dmitri. "Could you do me one more favor?"

"What?"

"Get me a paint pan, scissor and some newspaper. I need to make a cat box for it," she said. She got up and went to their little kitchen and got two bowls, filling one with water and bringing them both back to her room. She put some cat food in the second bowl.

* * *

The veterinarian was a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair cropped close to his head. His large scarred hands held the mewing cat as he inspected it with gentle fingers. "I'll say it's about four months, maybe five." He clicked his tongue, petting the little cat. "Stunted for its age though with proper care it should hit a big growth spurt." He smiled at her. "What you say its name is again?"

"Liho."

"Well, what I'd like to do is keep Liho for a few days. Get some antibiotics on board to clear up the infection and spay her."

"It's a girl?" she asked, she hadn't even bothered to check the cat's sex. The fact that it was a girl made her smile. "And spay her?"

"Yeah, remove her uterus and ovaries. She's small but should be big enough to handle it. It's perfectly safe and this will insure your cat lives a long and healthy life Miss—"

"Farrell, Natasha Farrell," she said, giving him a little smile and lowering her eyes. The veterinarian wore tennis shoes and faded blue jeans.

"Miss Farrell. It's a standard procedure."

"Can I say no?"

The veterinarian blanched, his ruddy cheeks paling. "You can," he said, his words slow. "But I wouldn't advise it. Spaying will ensure no unwanted litters, you won't have to deal with her menses cycles or any diseases related to her reproductive system. Honestly, she wouldn't even know what happened."

"But it's not her choice," Natasha said, keeping her face blank. The veterinarian laughed; she frowned.

"Miss Farrell, animals are not like people in that regard. Reproducing is instinctual for them, they don't choose to have or not have kittens. Trust me, she doesn't know she's a female now and she won't know she's a female after we spay her."

I still don't like it. "Alright," she said, "can I pick her up in two weeks? That should give you enough time to make sure she's healthy before you… sterilize her?"

"Sterilize her?" The veterinarian frowned. "That's a little harsh." He puffed his cheeks out as he sighed. "But yeah, two weeks should be good. Give us time to put some more weight on her. Don't worry Miss Farrell, your cat is in good hands."

"She better be," Natasha said as she stood up and gave Liho a few pets. "If anything happens to her—"

"Nothing will happen to her, Miss Farrell," he assured her as she left the examination room. Liho's terrified meows tugged at her heart — her little brothers and sisters screamed for her to stay as Ivan dragged her away into the car, their small hands grabbing at her torn and dirty clothes — she turned and gave her cat a few pets and murmured a few soft words in Russian. After that she left and paid the receptionist at the front desk, telling the woman what the treatment plan was and giving her a number to call. The other pet owners looked at her, the dogs panting nervously and the cats meowing in the carrier crates. The bell chimed as she exited the Brooklyn veterinarian office.

Standing in the sunlight, letting the humid warmth of the city wash over her, she let out a choked sob. It was strange how much it pained her to leave the cat behind, she had only had it for a night, but the animal had wormed its way into her heart. It was an orphan like her, abandoned and rejected by the world. Though they may be two different species, their kinship was the same. Her hand fell to her broken womb. "Pet store," she said, snapping herself from her thoughts, the sunlight warm on her skin. She slipped into the crowd, pulling out her phone and finding directions to the nearest pet store. The press of people around her, the airplanes droning over head and the honk of car horns — the pulse of the city — soothed her rattled nerves. It was a strange feeling, being surrounded by people but feeling alone. She took a right when her phone told her to. Dmitri hadn't been pleased when she decided to keep the cat and as she walked she realized that she'll eventually need an apartment.

This was a seduction mission, she will eventually have to sleep with Steve Rogers. And if she let him know she lived in the back of her dance studio — she shook her head. The gig would be up then. An apartment was in order, Dmitri was not going to like her living on her own. It took her a few minutes to walk the seven blocks from the veterinarian's office to the pet store. The interior of the store was cool, a bit humid and smelled of antiseptic and pets. People had their dogs on leashes, some of the dogs wanted to sniff each other while others growled and bared their fangs. A catching pop tune played over the radio and she looked around the large store, trying to find the cat section. She grabbed a cart and started pushing it, figuring if she had a stupid look on her face someone would help her.

"Can I help you miss?" a store associate asked. Natasha gave the associate a blithe smile. "You need help, right?"

"I do," she said, "I just got a cat. And I need some things for her."

"Aww, how wonderful! I have three cats" — the woman nattered on. She followed her silently to the cat section, making appropriate noises of acknowledgement or giving the associate a blithe smile. — "and here we are. So, my cat Joey really likes this feather wand, and my other cat Chrissy loves this pyramid ball toy, and Mikki will go nuts for laser pointers! On the next aisle you'll find cat trees, cat beds and little boxers and scoopers. Back there" — she pointed to the back wall — "cat litter. I use a biodegradable litter but ScoopAway, FreshStep, and Tidy Cats are really popular brands. And the aisles after the bedding are cat food and cat treats. I give my cats wet food every morning when I have breakfast and let them free choice dry food."

"Free choice?" She scrunched up her nose in confusion.

"Yeah," the associate said, "it's when you leave food out for your animal and it eats when it feels hungry."

"Oh."

"Most cat owners do free choice with their cats, it's easier." The associate smiled. "Any more questions?" she asked.

"Nope." Natasha smiled. "I think I got it. Thank you," she said. The associate nodded and went off to help someone else. She looked at the cat toys, picking up the toys the associate mentioned her cats liked, a few sparkly puff balls and mice toys. She picked up some catnip and pushed the cart down to the collars. Her eyes widened at the array of collars and leashes and cat harnesses. The collars and harnesses were divided into kitten and cat sizes. She selected a red collar with rhinestone studs and a breakaway clasp. She picked a solid red kitten collar. Next, she got some scratching boards, a cat tent, a litter box and scooper, litter and a case of canned cat food and some kitten kibble.

Grunting, she wheeled the cart towards the checkout aisle. She sighed, stopping in like behind a blonde woman with a golden retriever. They waited in line, the woman bought dog food and she looked at the last-minute items. She got a fish tag for Liho, just incase her cat ever slipped outside. The clerk at the register arched a brow at her as he rung up the items. He circled the code for the tag and pointed to the machine. Thanking him, she pushed her heavy cart over and did the tag. When the machine asked for her name she paused, biting her cheek as she thought about it before typing in her name and phone number. The machine unlocked the lid and she slipped the tag on the hook and watched the laser etch her cat's name and her name and contact information into the metal tag. A metallic clink told her the machine was finished. She fished the tag out and put in the little baggie before calling Dmitri.

* * *

As she suspected, Dmitri was not happy with her buying cat things or with her wanting to find an apartment. She rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time when he questioned her decision to leave the dance studio. "Our base of operation will remain at the dance studio, I'll set up a secondary computer to monitor the cameras. But if I'm supposed to seduce him, I need a place to bring him back too."

"You have a room here," Dmitri pointed out, gesturing to her tiny closet of a room. She frowned. "It would have been bigger if you didn't get all the cat stuff."

"It's also directly across the monitoring station. He'll see it. The point of this is to make sure he won't get suspicious." She frowned. "I need a wig, preferably blonde and sturdy enough to endure combat."

"A wig? Why?"

"Just get me what I need, Dmitri, don't ask questions. I'm the one risking my life out in the field." She surveyed her cramped room and wondered if Liho would like the toys. The bedroom she had in the Red Room had been bare, with bares on the windows and a lock on the door, her room no bigger than a closet. It had a bed, a small bookshelf, and a desk for the schoolwork they gave her and the other girls. Waking up was at six in the morning and bed time was at ten. The hours in between were filled with history lessons, ballet lessons, firearm lessons, martial art lessons, lessons on espionage, language lessons (English, French, Spanish, Japanese, Korean, Mandarin, Latin), lessons on first aid and poison. Thirty minutes for meals at morning, noon and night. Day by day, girls would vanish — die, break, become unable to continue. The lessons became more and more hands on. Madame B and the Winter Soldier demanding more and more.

For the glory of Soviet supremacy, they told her.

The breakable ones broke, the unbreakable ones…

She practiced until her toes and fingers bled. Wordlessly, let the doctors and scientists from Department X poked and prod her, pumping into her veins a red serum to boost her agility and flexibility, her immune system and mental aptitude. Some girls did not survive the experimentations. And at the end of every day, the guards would shepherd her and the other girls back to their tiny bedrooms and lock the door behind them.

A knock on the door frame made her jump, hand going to her heart. "Romanova?" Dmitri asked.

"Dmitri," she said, schooling her features once more. "What?" she asked as she turned to face him.

"We have a problem," he said and beckoned her to the monitoring station. He pointed to the cameras in Steve's apartment. Each room was empty, he was nowhere to be found. "He's not in his apartment." Dmitri swallowed. "Do you think he figured it out? Do you think Agent 13 knows?"

She tapped the key that toggled through the various rooms. "No." She settled on his living room again. "He's unaware. And neither does Agent 13." The last time she saw Steve was last night. Pale with his eyes bright from the pain of an injury he had sustained before she rescued him. A secret smile spread across her lips as she recalled the look of awe in his eyes as she took down the last member of the Wrecking Crew. The casual way they flirted and how he had asked her to come back and help him next time the Avengers assembled.

She frowned, realizing that he was naïve and willing to trust too easily. It'll get you killed, Steve. "Romanova?" Dmitri asked.

"Nothing's amiss, Dmitri," she said standing up. "I'm sure he'll be back in a few days. He is an Avenger. Probably just staying in Avengers Tower for a little bit. We should've expected this," she added. "Now, I'm going to find myself an apartment and see if I can't move out soon."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Dmitri said as she pulled out a second laptop from the desk drawer and turned it on. She arched a brow at him, daring him to say more but he kept his mouth shut. The google search bar popped up and she typed in Brooklyn apartments and began searching for a new place to live.

Steve's apartment building popped up and while she was tempted to look at the room on the floor above him that was being offered for rent, she figured it was better to not live in the same building as him. The other apartments were out of range of the budget the Kremlin had given her for this operation. Eventually, she found one that was two blocks from the dance studio, nice and within the price range she was looking for.

The next day she went over to the apartment building to look at the apartment and signed the lease a few hours later. With her new apartment key, she went to a furniture store and selected a coffee table, a dinette table, a couch, a bed and mattress, some book shelves and an entertainment stand. The electronic store was next on her list as she got a decent size tv. The book store was the next stop and she got some titles that she found vaguely interesting (American literature never did it for her), and last she went to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy sheets and towels and other bathroom necessities. The furniture, bed and tv would be delivered on Tuesday and she left her other purchases in her empty apartment before heading back to the dance studio.

The days passed, she fell into a routine: check the monitoring camera's in Steve's apartment while she ate her cereal and drank her coffee, open the studio, do the morning lessons, eat lunch and do the afternoon lessons, dinner and the evening lessons before going to bed. The Tuesday her furniture came she closed the studio for the afternoon and helped the movers put everything in its proper place. When they left, she looked around at the space. It felt… _fake_. Manufactured. As if she just threw some things together to make it look like she lived here. She brought the cat stuff over that day and it did lessen the manufactured feeling but not enough. "Well, I guess I have to _actually_ live here," she said, "live like an American."

The thought galled her, but she had a mission to do. Dmitri protested, but she insisted and told him to keep the dance studio ship-shape before taking all her items from the cramp little room and bringing them to her apartment. Day by day, the apartment began to shake off the manufactured feeling. She bought fairy light strings in the shape of Japanese temples and the Eiffel Tower, a few things of lucky bamboo, touristy knickknacks that caught her fancy. She found a Russian bookshop in one of the heavily Russian districts of New York; soon Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Gogol, Tolstaya, Pelevin and Ulitskaya joined the likes of King, Gaiman, Atwood, Williams, Helprin, and Murakami on her bookshelves. A couple of fleece and Sherpa throws found new homes on her couch and bed, the top drawer of her dresser had a new collection of fuzzy lounge socks. A few rugs found their way to the wooden floors of her apartment. She never learned to cook, so her fridge had eggs and milk and boxes of takeout. Her entertainment stand had American and Russian DVDs and when she brought Liho to her apartment it felt like… _home_.

The feeling of home hit her like a lighting bolt, and she froze on the floor with the feather wand in her hand. Liho had pounced on the feathers, chewing them with kittenish gusto. Natasha looked around the apartment and the feeling of home grew stronger. Tears welled up and she rubbed at her eyes. She wouldn't cry. She was Black Widow. She had no place, no purpose. She was a weapon to be used and put away when not needed.

She felt something soft and warm press against her knee. Looking down, Liho was rubbing against her, mewing and arching her back in a friendly gesture. "Good kitty," she said, stroking her soft fur and scratching at the base of her tail. "Good kitty." Liho looked up at her and slowly blinked her topaz colored eyes. She smiled, scooping up her pet and setting her on her lap. "Guess you never had a home either, huh?" she asked, petting her. The kitten purred loudly, leaning back until her chin was exposed. Natasha smiled, stroking the soft fur. "We're more alike than you realize," she said as she traced the shaved edge on her belly. "Guess both of us aren't meant to be mothers."

She had curled up on her bed after the graduation ceremony, silent tears rolling down her cheeks for the promise of a child, now forever broken. The doctor had said she may experience some spotting and she will continue to get her menses, but the chance of pregnancy was less than one percent, plus with her heightened immune system, if she did fall pregnant her body would detect as a foreign body and destroy the baby before it could get pass the eighth week of pregnancy.

It was what she blamed when Alexi accepted the position to pilot the experimental plane. It was what she blamed as her marriage to the only man that accepted her fell apart. A child was more important than a mission, so the Red Room took it away from her, to make sure she would never have anything more important than the mission.

Liho mewed, hopping up onto her shoulder and snuffling around her ear. She laughed, the kitten's whiskers tickling her neck and cheek. The kitten latched onto her earlobe and sucked. "Guess you'll my baby," she whispered, cradling the kitten. "Is that good ear-milk?" she asked. Liho pulled away and gave a long protesting mew, before going back to suckling.

* * *

She didn't have any students at the studio the next day. So, instead she put on _Swan Lake_ and danced Odette's (and by extension Odile's) part. It was one of her favorite ballets and was the most popular one used in the Red Room — Odette's part was well known for its notorious difficulty, as not only did the ballerina have to learn Odette's part but also her counterpart — Odile's. The challenge thrilled her as a young girl and Madame B demanded perfection. One of the reasons _Swan Lake_ was used was because the prima ballerina had to learn to shift her emotions on the fly to dance as both Odette and Odile. Two other favorite ballets used in the Red Room was _Giselle_ and _Sleeping Beauty_, both with demanding lead roles.

She mastered them all, but _Swan Lake_ had always had a special place in her heart. She wanted to say she remembered seeing it as a small child. Wanted to say she remembered her mother and father taking her to the ballet — a gift from a high-ranking government official, they were too poor to ever be able to afford tickets on their own — and sitting in those plush red chairs and the goosebumps that pricked her arms when the orchestra swelled for the first time. The grace of the dancers, especially Odette. It captured her young imagination and she had gone home telling her parents she wanted to be a ballerina, so she could be just as graceful. She wanted to remember how her parents smile and her father lift her up and spun her around, telling her she was his Odette. She wanted to say she remembered…

The music swept her away. In her mind she went over the steps — each one perfect, each one flawless — and soon lost herself in the music and the magic. Ballet was her escape. Madame B had noted she had a deep passion for the art and encouraged her to keep dancing. So, she danced, and danced, and danced. Danced until her feet were hard with callouses, toes sturdy from years of standing en pointe. Legs and ankles strong and flexible. Even know, years removed from her days in the Red Room, ballet was her release — her escape.

She leaped across the studio, doing a perfect split at the apex of her jump and on her foot with easy grace. Sweat shown on her skin, her chest rose and fell as she pirouetted. She fell to her knees, arms sweeping to and fro like swan wings and for a moment — if she imagined hard enough — she was a swan gliding on the water of a moonlit alpine lake. Rising to her feet with elegance, she spun and when she saw him the illusion broke.

"Amazing," Steve said, standing by the desk, slack jawed and wide eyed. "I've… wow… I've never seen anyone dance like that."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, hands splayed over her chest. She wasn't expecting him today. Hadn't seen him in his apartment for two weeks. And he just shows up — the nerve of him. "And where have you been?" she asked. "I thought you didn't want any more lessons, so I cleared your slot and—"

"I wanna draw you," he blurted out. He closed the gap between them and for a moment she thought he'd put his hands on her shoulders, but he didn't and instead let them fall to his side. "You… you're an incredible dancer. My fingers itch." She arched a brow. "I wish I brought my sketchbook."

"You haven't answered my question," she said, "what are you doing here?" That snapped him out of his ramblings and he fixed her with his gaze. She watched him lick his lips and his blue irises darken. No man had ever looked at her with such intensity, as if he was memorizing every line and angle of her body as she danced so he could recreate it on paper later. "Steve."

He gave himself a little shake. "Sorry," he said, his ears turning pink. "I was—"

"Committing me to memory?"

"Yeah." His tongue darted out to lick his lips. "I still want dance lessons," he said. "I just… I uh… I had an accident a few weeks ago and I've been on bed rest until yesterday." He grimaced. "Sorry, I didn't call."

Good grief, you're a terrible liar, Rogers. "Oh." An easy smile spread across her lips.

"Yeah, fell down the stairs, got hurt pretty bad," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, I know you probably… well, I was just wondering… since this isn't my usual lesson slot and I—"

"What do you want?" she asked, furrowing her brow. The question caused a blush to burn bright in his cheeks. This was awkward; she wrapped her arms around herself and ignored the gross feeling of dried sweat clinging to her clothes and hairline. Steve looked down at his feet as he fiddled with his fingers. "Look, I have some girls coming in a half hour. I can slide you in tomorrow at ten if you want to start the lessons again."

"Would you go to an art gallery with me?" he asked, an interest imploring look on his face. "They are opening a new gallery there and I heard the artist is some fresh talent from New York, and I was wondering if you'd be my date."

She balked and took a step back as her hand went around her throat. "I… I…" this wasn't apart of the plan, was it? They hardly knew each other, had one dance lesson and she just happened to save him two weeks ago. Now he wanted to go on a date with her, to an art gallery no less.

"We don't have to go as a couple. Just as friends." Nervously, he glanced around, his hand falling to her shoulder — she pulled away as if burned, and she did not miss the look of hurt that flashed across his face. "I don't have a lot of friends."

I know. "I'm sorry," she said, giving him a sympathetic smile. "But I have something going on tomorrow evening. And I don't date students."

"Is that a studio policy or—"

"Personal policy," she said, wondering why she sounded so cold suddenly. His shoulders slumped. "It ruins the professionalism that I strive to achieve. I hope you understand."

"I do."

Then why do you look crushed that I turned you down? "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

"Maybe you can rethink your personal policy."

She flushed. "Maybe I should," she said, "cause I don't have students half as handsome as you. Typically, they are young boys or old men."

He laughed. "Well I _am_ ninety-four" — he grinned and winked — "technically. Guess I'm an old man."

"You aged incredibly well, I must say," she said, placing a finger on his chest, "you don't look a day older than twenty-five."

"Try twenty-seven." He smiled. She blushed, a gloating little smile spread across her face. Biologically, she was one year older than him. "You're twenty-one, right?"

"You know, Steve" — she let his name roll off her tongue, savoring the sound of it and how his pupils dilated ever so slightly — "it's rude to ask a woman her age. Didn't your mother ever teach you that."

"She did," he said, "and she's probably rolling in her grave right now." He chuckled. "Well… I guess I'll see you tomorrow at ten, right?"

"Right." He nodded and gave her a small smile before heading to the door. "Hey, Steve."

"Yeah?" he turned around. Her breath caught in her throat and for one crazy moment she thought of telling him everything. It was strange, how she wanted to be honest with him, how keeping secrets from her made her palms itched.

"Uh… never mind. I'll see you tomorrow at ten," she said. An enigmatic look passed over his face and he gave a nod before leaving the studio.

"You know," Dmitri said, coming out from the back, "you'll have to accept a date from him at some point."

"I know," she said, clenching her hand at the base of her throat. "I know."

"So, whatever you're feeling for him, you better kill it Romanova. Your ability to remain impassionate about him is the key to this mission's success."

"Don't you think I know that, Dmitri?" she rounded on him. "Don't think you can act all high and mighty when you have been protesting how I do my job at every turn? I know what I'm supposed to do. Trust me, when its time to slit his throat, I will not hesitate. I'm loyal to Russia."

Dmitri cowered before, his eyes wide and face pale. "J-Just… Just making sure."

"Good," she spat and then went to the desk to call the mothers of the little girls due in fifteen minutes. She'd have to cancel lessons today, she was in no mood to teach. The mothers were unhappy that their hour of alone time was cancelled, but she didn't care. She closed the studio earlier and jogged the two blocks to her apartment.

When she opened the door, Liho was there with a small collection of her toys. The kitten perked up, rubbing against her and meowing insistently. She scooped her pet up and cuddled her as she leaned against the door until it clicked and slide down until she was on the floor.

The tears came unbidden, afterwards. "Oh Liho," she whispered, petting her cat, "what am I going to do?"

* * *

**Well, I got this chapter done faster than I suspected. It's a bit shorter too. **

**Enjoy. **

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	4. IV

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Ever since receiving Erskine's super solider serum, intense pain made him delirious. Images would flash before his eyes, bits and pieces of his past: obsidian sharp that cut deeper than any wound. His beloved mother on her deathbed, her grey headstone besides his father's, Bucky's scream as he fell into the icy abyss in the Alps, the force of the Valkyrie crashing into the ice shelf and Peggy's final _Steve_ just before the radio broke. Pain used to feel hot and angry, a sense of righteous injustice and unfair persecution. Now, it just felt numbing and cold as if someone was worming icicles beneath his skin.

To cope with such pain, he drifted in and out of consciousness, the blare of the sirens as the ambulance sped up the street — or was that the sound of an air raid siren and just outside was a war zone; each bump and jostling jerk because of a mortar going off too close — on its way to Avengers Tower so he could get the emergency medical attention he needed. "Hang in there Captain," the paramedic said, putting a face mask over his nose and mouth so he could get more oxygen. Brilliant spots of opalescent light dances just behind the heads of the paramedics that talked to him. The rubbery feel of latex against his eye lids as a paramedic peeled them back to examine his pupil reflex and other vital signs. Each breath was a struggle to fill his lungs, the continuous puffs of oxygen cool and ticklish against his face.

"Pe… Pe… Peggy…" the name tumbled from his lips like a prayer, his hand twitched as he tried to summon the strength to reach for her the hazy spectral image of her. "Peggy…"

"Captain?" the paramedic asked. He groaned, eyes rolling back into his skull. If someone were to ask if he remembered any of it, he'd say no. The world flickered in and out like a dying light bulb. At certain points he remembered seeing lights overhead and hearing JARVIS's voice and the shouts of the on-call medical staff. The cold kiss of air as his uniform was cut away and someone swearing at the sight of bruising covering his entire left side. X-rays were ordered, and he slipped out of consciousness after that.

The warmth of early morning sunlight woke him. A soft groan escaped his lips and his breath caught in his lungs. As the sun rose to his left it set the city ablaze with beauty. The aureate rays scintillating off the glass of the buildings and the shimmering waters of the Hudson River, tiny boats — nothing more than moving dark dots upon the blue of the water — inched along. The lights on the Brooklyn Bridge began to turn off and he could see the viridian riot that was Central Park. A warm June day was starting. It took his breath away, the sun waking the pulsing heart of America's cultural center. There was this majestic wonder that encapsulated New York, the beating heart of American culture. A city that succored the immigrants, the pathway illuminated by the light of Lady Liberty's torch held aloft over the harbor. He remembered hearing his mother recount the first time she saw the statue: she and his father wept at the sight of France's gift to America.

New York meant hope and liberty and freedom. Though it was battered and tattered from the battle with the Chitauri, he knew New Yorkers, there was a tenacity about them, an unconquerable spirit and a drive to rebuild. He could already see the city patching itself together and soon the attack would be a terrible memory with little physical evidence remaining. The sun bounced off the sharp angles of the buildings and as an artist, he could see the beauty in the buildings of the city, majesty of their sharp angles and sturdy lines. That itching sensation he got in his fingers whenever he saw something he just had to draw came and he clenched his hands to try and quell it. Tony stood in front of one of the windows, watching the sunrise over the city. Did Tony see how he could improve it, build upon the old to create a better new? A city that had an arch reactor for each of its boroughs to provide near limitless green energy to all the inhabitants, a city where technology was used not to destroy but to improve. Or did he see the beauty within lines and angles; human genius married with human creativity. "Does it get old?" he asked, causing Tony to turn to him.

An easy smile spread across Tony's lips. "No," he said, his voice a bare whisper, "it never gets old." He walked over to him, hands resting on the foot of the bed. "You gave us quiet a scare."

"Eh." He gave a one shoulder shrug. "Gotta do something to keep everyone on their toes." He grinned when Tony chuckled at his lame attempt at a joke. A companion yet pensive silence fell between them as the sun continued to rise. The hospital wing of Avengers Tower was nothing like the hospital rooms he remembered as a child or the medical tents on the front lines of war-torn Europe. It was futuristic, flat screens like windows into the body in every nook and corner, and with a few taps could be expanded out to give the user a three-dimensional representation of any section of the body. It was groundbreaking technology and it was a shame that it could not be implemented in hospitals all over the country. Such technology needed too many rare metals and components before it could be mass produced. "I didn't mean to keep you up."

"Don't worry about it" — Tony straightened, waving his hand dismissively — "hardly ever sleep" — he smiled, wandering closer to the head of the bed — "something of an insomniac."

"Ah." He smiled and tilted his head in a knowing nod. "You should get that checked out."

"I should, but I'm not a huge fan of doctors. All that poking and prodding — needles. Don't like needles."

"Never cared for them as a kid either," he said. "Gotten used to them after joining the Army." A fleeting smile spread across his lips as he remembered how he mistook the shot of penicillin for the injection of the serum.

"I bet. Considering" — Tony made a vague gesture to his person — "well." He looked at the monitors, watching the blips on the screen with a pensive frown on his face. "Do you pass out a lot?"

"The serum is designed to have a protective barrier of healing and rejuvenation around all my cells. Can't get drunk." As he rested his head against the pillows, he let out a long weary sigh, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "Also have a really high pain tolerance. Doesn't help that medicine doesn't work on me. Senses are acute, I feel a lot more of everything."

"That's a damn shame." Tony wandered away. "Because I only have the good stuff, and Pepper doesn't like me drinking alone. Says its not good for my health." He spun around again. "Though that must make having sex pretty amazing. If you feel everything more."

The color rose to his cheeks and he looked away, he was not having this conversation with Tony. "I'll drink with you if you want," he said instead, "make sure you don't get inebriated." He smiled, it would be nice to drink with someone again. Bucky used to drag him to the bars and dance halls during the weekends, tried to use his charm to get the girls to dance with him but often they ended up dancing with Bucky.

"Hey, if you uh… ever want to talk about my dad —" Tony stopped, clapping his hand over his fist. There was a soft rumbling sound and the windows darkened as the sun reached a high point. "Thank you JARVIS."

"Of course, sir," the AI said.

"I'd like that, he was a good man, Tony, would've been proud of you." He licked his lips. "I remember Howard mentioned he had a butler back home named Jarvis. Is that where you get the name?"

Tony nodded and then scoffed, turning his back to him and staring out the window. "God, I hope he is." He spun on heel and fixed him with a stare. "Who was that woman, the Black Widow?" Tony asked. "She seemed to know you."

He laughed, wincing a bit and one of the nurses that had been trickling in came over to inspect his bandages and see how he was doing. "I'm kinda well known if you haven't forgotten." He gave her a smile once she was done then dropped his gaze to the blanket, finding a loose thread to fiddle with. "But no, I don't know her."

"C'mon, Rogers, don't keep secrets. We're friends… at least I hope we're friends, don't wanna over step my bounds."

Friends… the last time he called anyone a friend was in 1945. It felt like a lifetime ago, and there was a finality about it, almost as if he was no longer allowed to have friends. "She looked like my dance teacher." He didn't know why he said it, but he did and by the look in Tony's eyes he regretted it. "I mean, she uh looks like she _could be_ a dance teacher. Not mine… I uh—"

"You're taking dance lessons? For how long? Who are you trying to impress?" Tony asked, coming closer. "I'm hurt you didn't tell me, I'm a fabalous dancer."

He sighed, this was going to be embarrassing. "Yes, Tony, I'm taking dance lessons." Lord, admitting that to Tony was more painful that it should have been. "And no, it's not to impress anyone."

"Liar," Tony said, ever quick on his feet. "You found a girl." Tony beamed at one of the nurses that walked in. "Why else would a man like you take dance lessons. Unless you were forced to by your mother — I love my mother — but I hated the fact she made me take dance lessons."

"Tony," he said, "people normally take dance lessons because they can't dance."

"Nonsense! Of course, you can dance! That's all you guys did back then considering you didn't have television." Tony looked at him again. "So, who is she?"

"What?"

"The girl" — Tony gestured at him — "your girlfriend. Who is she?"

A nervous laugh escaped him as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. This… this was bad. Tony couldn't know. If Tony knew then the entire country would know in less than a week and his enemies would too. He couldn't put that risk on her. While the face of Steve Rogers wasn't that well known, the face of Captain America was. "Tony, I'm not dating anyone."

"I did tell you that you're a terrible liar, Rogers," Tony said, "hey everyone! Steve's gotta girlfriend!" Tony announced to the nurses on the floor. He felt his ears turn pink as Tony turned back, a smug smirk on his face. "So, what's her name."

"For the last time, Tony, I'm not dating anyone. I hardly know anyone in this century, so why do you think I'm dating anyone?"

"You're taking dance lessons for one," he said. Steve swallowed and realized that it came down to his pride and his secret. On one hand, he could tell Tony he can't dance and that's the real reason for the lessons, or, on the other hand, tell Tony that he's — not in love with, but — fascinated by his dance teacher. The former would be rewarded with an endless supply of jokes at his expense, the latter risked exposing Natasha to unwanted attention as Captain America's Girlfriend. The latter was something he would not bestow upon her without her knowledge. "And two—"

"I can't dance," he said. "That's the reason I'm taking dance lessons." He looked at Tony with a pleading expression to make this at least embarrassing at possible. "It's because I can't dance. Never learned how. Never got a chance to ask a woman to dance, and by the time I was this" — he gestured to himself — "asking someone to dance didn't seem that important anymore." He let out a quick breath. "Peggy Carter was supposed to teach me, but I—"

"Became a capsicle."

"Yeah." He looked out the window, the city no longer sparkled with early morning sunlight, the city seemed muted from the sunscreens as if he was seeing everything through sunglasses, a strange melding of light and shadow. "So, I'm taking dance lessons, so I can actually dance if I ever meet a girl that wants to dance with me."

For his part, Tony didn't laugh (a small blessing in his opinion), the inventor did grin though had clapped him on his good shoulder. "If you had just asked, I would've gotten you the best dance teacher in New York. No need to go economic."

"It's fine, Tony, thanks," he said, "but I can get by on my own." He shifted, trying to get comfortable again. It was a difficult challenge considering his entire left side was one big throbbing bruise. At least his popped lung was fixed. Tissue wounds always healed fast thanks to the serum.

"Mr. Stark," a nurse said, gently placing her hand on Tony's arm. "Captain Rogers needs his rest."

"Right, you're probably hungry, is there anything you want to eat?" Tony asked. He frowned, thinking about what he'd like to eat. He was pretty sure that everything he used to remember eating was no longer around.

"I've been told I had to try a bacon cheeseburger," he said, "so maybe a couple of those. The biggest ones you can get." The nurse made a little protesting gesture with her mouth but swallowed her words and inclined her head in Tony's direction. Tony grinned and patted his leg.

"I gotcha Cap," he said and followed the nurse out. He smiled as Tony and the nurse left, and rubbed his face with his good hand as he settled in for a few boring weeks as his ribs healed.

* * *

Tony came and visited often enough. Bruce did too, with a chess board and casual games of chess. Bruce sometimes asked questions about Project: Rebirth and he told the scientist what he knew, which wasn't much. In a way he felt sorry for Bruce, an unintended consequence of the project and man's desire to recreate the super soldier serum. Clint came by too, watching movies he had missed while froze (this brought Tony and the movies _he_ felt were important). By the second week of his recovery, he could walk around and had his spacious room in the Tower. It was an entire floor. There was a kitchen, a living room, a personal gym, a bedroom with a fancy bathroom, and another room that he could convert into a second studio. The furniture still felt manufactured, as if Tony (or rather Pepper) didn't really know what he liked and when Tony asked if he liked it, his hesitancy prompted Tony to fetch Pepper and they poured over furniture magazines and within a day the furniture and décor had all been replaced to things much more his taste. He probably could go back to his apartment at this point, but the Tower was starting to feel more like home than his apartment.

It was a beautiful Thursday, and the early afternoon light was perfect for sketching. The pencil scritch-scratched across the paper, the lines manifesting themselves and slowly revealing Natasha's face. In the background, an old Billie Holliday record was playing, the pop and crackle of the record was soothing, and he was a bit surprised that Tony even had this sort of "retro" tech laying around. "Captain Rogers, you have a visitor," JARVIS said.

"Oh?" he looked up from his work. "I'm not expecting anyone," he said and stuck the pencil in between the pages of the book as he got up. "You can let them in JARVIS."

"Of course, Captain," the AI said, and he went into the living room to greet his unexpected visitors. It was shocking to see Sharon, dressed in a flattering navy t-shirt and jean shorts, her blond hair twisted around into a bun that sat on the back of her head. But the most surprising — painful — thing was the old woman besides her.

She was a far cry from the beautiful woman he remembered, with bright intelligent brown eyes, waves of chocolate tresses and lips with bright red rouge. She had commanded attention when she walked into the room, melted hearts with a smile (or in his case, stole his when she punched Hodge in the face) and was a brilliant shot. "My God," he whispered, coming over to the two women. "Peggy." He reached for her, tears burning in his eyes. Peggy was old and wrinkled, hunched over and leaning on Sharon for support. Her once chocolate hair was now silver, though still just as thick and her eyes still had that intelligence to them.

"Steve," Peggy whispered, disbelieving. "You're alive." She reached her gnarled hands up to cup his face and the tears he was trying to hold back fell. "You came back."

He tried to speak several times, but the emotions clogged his throat, so he nodded and wrapped her up in a hug. It broke his heart to feel her bones through her clothes. She was so fragile, like a bird, that he was afraid if he squeezed too hard she'll break, shatter into dust. "Yeah, Peggy," he finally said. "I did."

She shuddered in his arms a little. "It has been so long, Steve, so long." She looked up at him, tears dampening her cheeks. "When Sharrie told me, we were going to visit an old friend I thought" — Peggy chuckled — "well I don't know what I thought, considering all my old friends are dead." She patted his cheek. "But you… not in a hundred years would I have expected to ever see you again."

"I never thought I'd see you again," he said as he led Peggy over to the couch and helped her sit down. "When I woke up and Fury told me I've been asleep for almost seventy year…" he hung his head, shaking it in disappointment. "I'm sorry," he said, running his thumb along her cheekbone. "I missed our date."

"Oh Steve," she said, taking his hand and kissing his palm. "Don't. You saved the world" — she gave him a bittersweet smile — "we rather mucked it up."

"You didn't," he said with a smile, "at least, I'm pretty sure you didn't. You could never muck anything up."

"Always willing to see the good in everyone," she said. "Why didn't you call me after you got out of the ice?"

"I…" he sighed. "They — Shield — gave me your file, along with Howard's and the Commandos after I was thawed" — he grimaced at that — "and I just… when I found out you were alive, a part of me did want to call you and pick up where we left off. But another part, told me that you probably had moved on. Found someone else. That you wouldn't want to see me."

Sharon came over with a glass of water. "Here, Aunt Peggy," she whispered, handing the old woman the glass. Steve gave her a small smile and she left them, exploring his spacious suit in the Tower. Peggy took a sip of water.

"Whatever gave you the idea I wouldn't want to see you?" Peggy asked. He shrugged. "Because that's nonsense. Of course, I'd want to see you. I loved you Steve. I was heartbroken after you crashed. I thought I'd never find love or happiness—"

"But you did," he whispered, "you got married and had a family. You moved on and I… I still want to have what I lost." He shifted away, feeling guilty for his desires, for wanting a second chance at the life he lost. A life with her. "I'm an old man holding onto a dead dream."

Peggy gave him a melancholic smile as she took his hand. "The world has changed—"

He looked at her, a lopsided smile on his face. "I know that."

"I know" — she gave him a tender smile — "but listen Steve, the world has changed and none of us can go back. All that we can do is our best and sometimes our best is to start over," she said. He sighed, shoulders slumping at the finality in her words. It felt like such a daunting task: starting his life over, rebuilding it from the ashes of what he once had. He didn't think he could do it. How could he replace a friend like Bucky or a love like Peggy? It was impossible, and he didn't want to attempt it. Starting over would have to start with him admitting that he lost everything seventy years ago when he chose to fly the Valkyrie into the ice. That was something he wasn't willing to do… not yet at least.

"I don't know if I can do that, Peggy," he said. "For as long as I can remember I just wanted to do what's right." He tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. The Chitauri invasion, how Fury was trying to use the tesseract to fight people like Thor. The secrets and the lies that brought the Avengers together. The dishonesty of everything made his skin feel oily and dirty. "I guess I'm not quite sure what that is anymore" — he glanced at his hands, long fingered with sturdy palms. Artist hands as his mother used to tell him. Hands that fought in the bloodiest war in human history. Hands no longer belonging to an artist but to a soldier. — "And I thought I could throw myself back in, follow orders, serve. But it's just not the same." He smiled disarmingly.

Peggy laughed, patting his hand. "You're always so dramatic," she said. "Steve, it's okay if you are feeling lost. You've been frozen for seventy years. The last time you saw me I was a young woman holding a machine gun in a Hydra base—"

"No," he said, his smile widening, "last time I saw you, you gave me my first kiss and told me to go get them." He squeezed her hand gently. "I finally find the right partner and I go and fly a plane into the ice."

"Yes, I remember, and don't you ever be ashamed of saving the world, Steve. I know you want to carry on, shoulder the world's burdens, but you need to give yourself some time to adjust."

"I know, but—"

"No buts, Steve," Peggy said, "everything you knew, everything you remember is dead. Give yourself time to mourn."

Mourn. The word seemed so final and with Peggy saying it he did realize that it did feel like everything he once knew died. That he did feel grief for what he lost. Deep in his heart, he just didn't want to admit it to himself. "Is there a chance we could have our dance?" he asked, sounding a bit shy. "I've taken a few lessons — well uh… _a_ lesson, but I promise I won't step on your toes."

Peggy chuckled. "We can have our dance," she said, and looked up when Sharon wandered back over, "but tomorrow. I'm a bit tired."

"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Okay. I'll find a nice slow song. I'm sure Tony has some old records that would work." He helped Peggy to her feet. "Maybe we can have lunch too?" he asked.

"Maybe," Peggy said as she and Sharon headed out. He stopped at the door and gave her a hug, and she kissed his cheek. "It was good seeing you again Steve."

"Well," he said, "I couldn't leave my best girl" — he smiled — "not when she owes me a dance." Peggy smiled at that. "Take care," he added and watched them leave. The door gave a soft hiss as it closed behind him. The suite was quiet, dead, and he went to the couch and sat down. Peggy's glass of water on the table. It was too much; the weight of the world crushing him. It coiled around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. A gasp escaped him, his head fell into his hands. He cried; for all that once was, for all that had been lost.

* * *

Peggy came back the next day with Sharon. After a brief hello, Sharon left them, and he turned on the record player. Tony had an old copy of a Louis Armstrong record and as the raspy croon of the famous jazz singer and trumpeter drifted through his suite, he and Peggy finally got their dance. He led her around in small circles, swaying to the music and enjoying holding her. She still wore her favorite perfume of roses and jasmine. "You know," he said, his voice soft.

"Hm?"

"I wanted to get you some fancy Paris perfume after the war." He rested his cheek against her head. "Told Bucky, I'd go to Paris and get the best perfume and give it to you on our first date after the war."

"You had plans? For after the war?" she asked, looking up at him. The words for _A Wonderful World_ drifted around the room and if he closed his eyes he could see their underground base in London, during the New Year of 1944. There wasn't a big party, just a bunch of servicemen and women huddled around a radio and cheering as they heard the announcer report that the ball had dropped in Times Square, and to hear the updated news reports about the war effort. There was no champagne, no New Year kisses or party hats and streamers. Just a quiet, subdued break for good cheer before going back to work. "Steve?"

"Yeah," he said, blinking away his tears. "I had plans. Was gonna… well, I was hoping to get to know you better, maybe even marry you." He sighed, struggling to let go of the dream that had sustained him during the war. A home he and Peggy built together, with children. "Build a life with you."

"Oh, Steve" — she looked up at him — "I'm sorry we never got to share our lives together."

"Me too." He held her close, letting the sorrow wash over him. The song stopped and he led Peggy to the couch before turning the record player off. He sat next to her, passing her the glass of water. "It may have been seventy years later, but we got our dance."

She smiled, a little laugh escaping her. "Yes," she said, sipping her water, "we did. You dance well Steve, considering you told me you don't know how to dance."

He flushed. "I told you I had a lesson recently. Still not good at the Lindy Hop," he muttered. The fast beat of the big band music filled his head, trumpets and clarinets blaring and he saw Natasha there on the dance floor, in a shimmering black dress and dolled up in the matte fashion of the 40s. "But I'm taking lessons," he said, wiggling his fingers. "Got a swell dance teacher. She's a beautiful dame — I mean woman" — he shot a nervous glance at Peggy — "I mean, of course she's a woman, but she's beautiful and really good at dancing and—"

Peggy laughed, patting his shoulder. "You _still_ don't know a bloody thing about women."

The heat rose to his cheek as he bowed his head with a little chuckle. "Didn't have a lot of time to learn anything."

"Do you like her?" Peggy asked. The question caught him off guard and he choked on his spit. Peggy laughed, rubbing his back as he composed himself. "I'll take that as a less."

"I mean… I want to draw her," he said, his voice soft and reverent. "I can't get her out of my head sometimes Peggy. Sometimes all I see is her and she won't leave me alone until I put an image of her down on paper." He looked out the window, watching the sunlight sparkle on the steel and glass of the city. An imagined image of Natasha danced across the cityscape, graceful and serene, his soul enraptured by such beautiful elegance. "She's my muse."

Peggy chuckled. "Looks like someone's in love," she said, a teasing lilt to her words. He whipped his head around to look at her. Peggy smiled.

"In love?" his words came out in an undignified squeak and he had a brief flashback of his high school days when his voice was starting to crack — going from the high-pitched voice of his boyhood to the deeper tone of his coming manhood. Heat covered his entire face. "But I…" he shook his head. "I can't be in love Peggy."

She patted his cheek. "Your heart wants to move on, but your head doesn't want to." She nodded in understanding. "I felt the same way when I met my husband. I kept thinking that this time… this expectation, Howard would surely find you. He had to." Her throat tightened, and a tear trickled down her wrinkled cheek. "He had to find you, at least your body…" She let out a long weary sigh. "Eventually, with some prodding from a dear friend, I gave in to what my heart wanted."

"But what about us?" he whispered, taking her hand and squeezing it. It was so disconcerting to feel her bones through her paper-thin skin. "I love you," he said, weakly, as if this could fix everything, reverse time and bring them back to their point where they left off. It didn't.

"And I love you, Steve," Peggy said, "but I'm an old woman now. I've lived my life. Don't get caught up in holding onto a dead dream that you forget to live your life, forget to let yourself love again. Your heart wants to, if you dance teacher captures your imagination with such vivid intensity. So" — she gave him a warm smile — "follow your heart. It'll make me happy, so happy to know you that you did."

"But, I—"

"Don't think I'm asking you to abandon your love for me," she said, and stopped. A pensive expression passed over her face. "But rather, Steve, think of our love like a book. It was a sad book, but the story is over. Now you must open this new book and see where this new love takes you. Maybe I wasn't the right partner, and she is. You'll always love the first book, but the second book can be just as good, maybe better."

A shy smile spread across his lips. "Are you giving me your blessing?" he whispered. It sounded stupid as soon as it left his mouth. Asking her for her permission to love someone else. But he needed to hear her say it, to know that she won't feel jilted if he pursued another woman.

She laughed. "If you want to treat it as such then yes, you have my blessing," she said, "follow your heart Steve. Live your life. Your past defines you, but it doesn't control you" — she leaned in close — "so don't let it."

He laughed, kissing her temple and noticed that Sharon came back over. "Time to go," he whispered to Peggy. "Next time I'll come visit you," he said as he helped her stand up. Peggy nodded, as she took Sharon's hand.

"I'd like that Steve. I want to show you pictures of my children and little Sharon," she said. Sharon flushed.

"Aunt Peggy," she chided, "I really don't think he wants to see pictures of me." She looked at mouthed to him _no_. He laughed as he walked them to the door.

"Nonsense, you were so cute as a little girl," she said as the door sighed opened. "He'd love to see the pictures, right Steve?"

Both women looked at him, waiting for his answer. He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, if you want to show me the pictures Peggy, I won't stop you." He laughed again when Sharon scowled playfully at him. "I'll see you later," he added as they left. The door hissed shut and a blurry image of his reflection met him. "Damn," he muttered and rubbed his hands together and went back to the drawing he started yesterday.

* * *

A few days later he was cleared by medical; ribs and lung healed, bruising gone. Fit for full duty. It wasn't surprising, the serum kept his body in tip-top shape, healed him faster than an average person. He left the tower that day, going back to Brooklyn. The sun was warm, the day felt optimistic, so he let his feet carrying him down the streets that was familiar yet unfamiliar. Thoughts buzzed through his head as he walked down the sidewalk. The city was noisy, more so than his youth, with people pressing in around him chatting on their phones — ear buds in their ears and appearing to talk to air. Music blaring from sleek cars that jarred his sensitive hearing and people shouting at one another over the groan and grinding rattle of construction work.

There was a pulse to the city, the same pulse that beat within it seventy years ago, but it was transformed. It felt mechanical — electrical — technical even, and it both disturbed and fascinated him. The buildings towered over him, so different from when the Empire State building was the largest building in the city. Planes droned overhead, while sirens whined in a distant part of the block and street vendors hawked their wares. He stopped in front of the dance studio and he saw her.

Saw her dancing. Intrigued, he went in to watch. She didn't even hear him come in, so caught up in the beautiful music playing. It sounded like _Swan Lake_. Natasha moved like a swan, long limbed and fluid grace. If he closed his eyes, he could see the lake with a dark looming castle that stood sentinel and a swan dancing upon the glassy black surface of the moonlit lake. Natasha captured that scene with each step, each leap and each twirl as she danced across the floor, vermillion hair following her like a tongue of flames.

The itching sensation burned in his fingers and he regretted he didn't bring his sketchpad. To capture this raw, primal grace forever in ink and paint made his heart thunder against his chest. In his mind's eye he could see the lines: long and graceful, easy and unhurried. The brush strokes would be quick streaks across the canvas to illustrate the speed in her movements, and then he would add the shadows. Deep and lazy as if they were taking their time to cover the light, but never the beauty the light illuminated. Walking over to the desk, he discovered the perfect angle and lighting to capture her dancing. The radiance and brilliance of her movements, the way the light bounced off her. An emotion spread over him: desire. "Amazing," he said, standing by the desk, slack jawed and wide eyed. He struggled to regain his composure once she stopped dancing. "I've… wow… I've never seen anyone dance like that." A doping grin spread across his face.

Natasha gave a startled jump, her movements coming to an abrupt halt. "What are you doing here?" she asked, hands splayed over her chest. The grin slowly fell from his face as his brow furrowed. Was she mad at him? Why would she be mad at him? Was it because he started her? "And where have you been?" she asked. "I thought you didn't want any more lessons, so I cleared your slot and—"

A sinking sensation settled in his gut when she told him that. Of course he still wanted lessons, he just was recovering from his injuries. He couldn't tell her she was giving dance lessons to Captain America, so he wracked his brain for a plausible excuse. "I wanna draw you," he blurted out. He closed the gap between them and for a moment he considered putting his hands on her shoulders but feeling as if that was too familiar he refrained from it. "You… you're an incredible dancer. My fingers itch." She arched a brow; he chuckled at her befuddled expression, a shy smile gracing his lips. "I wish I brought my sketchbook."

"You haven't answered my question," she said, "what are you doing here?" That snapped him out of his ramblings and he fixed her with his gaze. It was hypnotic looking at her. Desire settled at the base of his spine, as his eyes drifted over every contour of her body, memorizing every line so he could go home and recreate this masterful work of art that was Natasha. His sharp gaze caught how the muscles in her throat constricted when she swallowed. "Steve."

Her voice snapped him out of his trance, and he felt a blush color his face. "Sorry," he said, his ears turning pink. "I was—" just memorizing you.

"Committing me to memory?"

Preceptive. "Yeah." His tongue darted out to lick his lips. "I still want dance lessons," he said. "I just… I uh… I had an accident a few weeks ago and I've been on bed rest until yesterday." He grimaced; it was a half lie. He had been up and about all last week, but as far as she knew, he wasn't anything special. Just an average New Yorker. "Sorry, I didn't call."

"Oh." An easy smile spread across her lips. The fact that she wasn't pressing for more information made him let out a sigh of relief. She had no idea that she was giving dance lessons to Captain America, his secret was safe.

"Yeah, fell down the stairs, got hurt pretty bad," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Tony had told him yesterday that there was an art gallery opening in Manhattan, some new artist was being showcased and Tony figured he'd want to go. Peggy also had encouraged him to follow his heart. "Hey, I know you probably… well, I was just wondering… since this isn't my usual lesson slot and I—" He flushed, hating how bad he was with this.

"What do you want?" she asked, furrowing her brow. The question made him blush and he looked down at his feet fiddling with his fingers. "Look, I have some girls coming in a half hour. I can slide you in tomorrow at ten if you want to start the lessons again."

It's now or never Rogers. "Would you go to an art gallery with me?" he asked, pinning her with an earnest imploring look. Please say yes, please say yes. "They are opening a new gallery there and I heard the artist is some fresh talent from New York, and I was wondering if you'd be my date." Please say yes!

She took a step back as her hand went around her throat, mouth opening and closing in surprise that he had the balls to ask her out. "I… I…" she stammered as if what she wanted to say was stuck in her throat.

"We don't have to go as a couple. Just as friends." Nervously, he glanced around, his hand falling to her shoulder — he frowned when she pulled away as if he burned her. Women had rejected him before, it had stung but he always bounced back. Natasha's subtle rejection _hurt_, as if she drove a knife through his heart and twisted it. "I don't have a lot of friends," he said, meekly.

"I'm sorry," she said, giving him a sympathetic smile. "But I have something going on tomorrow evening. And I don't date students."

Oh. I never thought about that. "Is that a studio policy or—"

"Personal policy," she said. In that one statement he knew that any hopes he had of dating her had been dashed; his shoulders slumped in disappointment. "It ruins the professionalism that I strive to achieve. I hope you understand."

"I do." He did, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. All the girls Bucky had set him up with, all the girls he tried to ask to dance… their rejection never made him feel like he wanted to vomit. Cold dredge twisted in his gut and he tamped down his emotions. He didn't need her to reconsider just because she hurt his feelings. That would be guilt tripping and he didn't want to do that to her.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

"Maybe you can rethink your personal policy." A teasing smile spread across his face. If there was one thing that Bucky had decried, it was his stubbornness. His mother had always told him it would land him in a heap of trouble.

She flushed. "Maybe I should," she said, "cause I don't have students half as handsome as you. Typically, they are young boys or old men."

He laughed. Maybe… just maybe he had a chance with her after all. "Well I _am_ ninety-four" — he grinned and winked — "technically. Guess I'm an old man."

"You aged incredibly well, I must say," she said, placing a finger on his chest, "you don't look a day older than twenty-five."

"Try twenty-seven." He smiled. All his senses fixated on her finger, light pressure of it on his sternum. Butterflies danced in his stomach. "You're twenty-one, right?"

"You know, Steve, it's rude to ask a woman her age. Didn't your mother ever teach you that."

The way she said his name, like a purr, as if she savored the sounds on her tongue, made him shudder. Desire gathered at the base of his spine and he let out a quick breath to get himself under control. "She did," he said, "and she's probably rolling in her grave right now." He chuckled. "Well… I guess I'll see you tomorrow at ten, right?"

"Right," she said. He nodded and gave her a small smile before heading to the door. "Hey, Steve."

"Yeah?" he turned around, waiting for her to say something. An enigmatic look clouded her eyes as if she was debating something within herself. He frowned, wondering what she wanted to tell him.

"Uh… never mind. I'll see you tomorrow at ten," she said. That strange look vanished and he gave her a nod before leaving the studio. Once outside, it took a considerable amount of effort on his part to casually stroll down the street in the direction of his apartment. After a few blocks he broke into a run, his fingers itching, and one more he had to rein in his superior abilities to appear normal.

* * *

Images buzzed in his mind: her serene grace, the controlled power within her movements, the way her emotions fluttered across her face. All of it begging to be captured on canvas, coaxed into magical life with brush and paint. The itching sensation went under his nails just thinking about it. The siren's song of the canvas tugged at him as he thundered up the steps and into his apartment. It took years of controlling his strength to not break his door down in his haste to get into his apartment.

Once inside, he pulled his coat off and went to his studio, grabbing the empty mason jar and filling it with water from the bathroom. He took the canvas down with her profile sketch he was working on and put a fresh one on the easel. Sitting down at in front of the easel, he stared at the canvas as he tried to organize his thoughts, find the images he wanted to put to paper. Settling on one, he grabbed his pencil and began to sketch, getting lost in the scritch-scratch of graphite against the rough canvas.

Slowly, her graceful form appeared. Her arms spread wide as if she was cradling the moon, one foot pointed straight to the ground. Almost as an afterthought he sketched water ripples from her foot planted on the ground. A surrealist approach felt appropriate for this work. The tutu she wore he made long and flowy with a feathery feel for each ruffle and the bodice had feathers and sequins. It pained him, but he drew her lovely red hair up in a neat bun, a circlet of diamonds upon her brow (he satisfied himself with a few ringlets framing her face). The intensity in her gaze didn't seem to be there with just the medium of a pencil, and he knew it would be something he had to recreate with paint, maybe even pastels.

Just thinking about paint made his fingers itch, his impatience to finish the sketch mounting. He sat back and took a deep breath, holding it for a little bit before slowly letting it out. Running his hand through his hair, he leaned forward and finished the sketch, adding a moon overhead and creating the illusion she was holding it in her arms. "Stars," he muttered, adding several quick stars to the canvas as reference points for later. He looked at the sketch, pleased with the work but having the sense that it was incomplete, the emotion in her dance wasn't there. It needed paint, begged for it. Grabbing a small bowl, he grabbed a scarlet shade and squirted some into the bowl before pouring a healthy amount of water and mixing it until it was pale and runny, more water than paint. Taking a large brush, he applied the watery coat of paint onto the canvas. Once the paint had dried he'll go over his lines again before he started painting. "Tomorrow," he mumbled, as he watched the paint dry.

Stretching as he stood, he left his little art studio. He fixed himself some lunch, watched the news as he ate, before grabbing his sketchbook and sitting on his couch to sketch images of Natasha. The last couple of pages of the book have been dedicated to her; he had done a lot of drawing as he healed. The fact he drew surprised Tony the most and the inventor asked if he had ever considered opening a gallery. There had been a time — a life time ago — when he wanted to draw comics. His passion for art came from his mother, as he drew her cute images to cheer her up from her long days as a nurse in the tuberculosis ward. The other boys bullied him for his girly hobby, tearing up his sketchbooks and breaking his pencils. He'd try to fight them off, but he was a sickly frail kid and ended up with more black eyes and bloodied noses than his bullies. Bucky helped curved that trend, but he still got picked on for wanting to be an artist. Still, he persisted in his hobby and every Christmas his mother would get him a new set of sketchbooks or fancy artist pencils or sets of brushes and paints. He went to art school, with every intention of living his dream…

Then the war broke out and he realized his true calling was serving his country and not drawing comics. "And now I'm Captain America," he mumbled, his lips quiking up in a half smile as he noted — with some bitterness — in his tone. He frowned, erasing a bad line. Natasha always gave him a challenge. She was so many things in one body that he found it difficult to captured everything he saw about her. Still, he wasn't a man known for giving up. In fact, part of the thrill was trying to capture all the different facets of her personality. Setting the drying canvas down, he picked up the unfinished sketch on the other one and resumed work on it.

Drawing was cathartic, trance inducing, and he ignored the lengthening shadows in the room, the growl of his stomach or the need to pee. Bit by bit, Natasha's profile was coming into life. A ringing sound came from his living room, causing him to look up from the drawing. "What now?" he got up, the need to pee suddenly pressing and made a quick trip to the bathroom before grabbing his phone. "_Gently_," he reminded himself and swiped the green phone icon across the screen. "Hello?" he asked.

"Capsicle!" Tony said. "Why don't you come over this evening, have a few drinks with me and Barton."

"I don't know Tony," he said. He could lie, say he had plans. Knowing Tony though, he'd probably come over just to see if that was true and drag him to the Tower when it turned out not to be. "I'm not really the drinking and shooting the breeze type of guy."

"C'mon, Steve. How _else_ are you gonna make friends in this new century if you don't shoot the shit with people over a couple of beers?"

Tony had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. It wasn't like Bucky was gonna walk through the door anytime soon, and all the other Commandos are dead and so was Howard. Peggy was the only one left from his past and she was a frail old woman. He needed new friends, especially after admitting to Natasha he had none. "Alright," he said, "I'll be over soon."

"No need, Happy's outside your place. Figured I might have to persuade you to come if you said no," Tony said.

"What?" he walked over to the window that faced the parking lot of his building. Sure enough, standing in front of a sleek black sedan was Tony's head of security. The jovial rotund security head waved at him. "You son of a bitch," Steve whispered. "Alright. Lemme get into something a little nicer —"

"Speaking of clothes, you and I are going clothes shopping tomorrow. Can't have you looking like an old man at the gallery tomorrow."

"What makes you think you're coming?"

"Of course, I'm coming. Pepper wants to see it, so I figured we tag along and gawk at confusing paintings with you."

"Tony," he said, running a hand down his face. "Really, I'm fine going to the gallery—"

"Didn't you listen, or do you have chunks of ice still in your ears? Pepper wants to look at the gallery too," he said.

"Fine. I'll see you in a few minutes. Bye."

"Later, Capsicle." There was a beep and the call ended. He looked at his phone and pressed the button on the side to turn it off. Running a hand though his hair, he went to his room and pulled out a nice shirt and slacks to change in to. He took a shower (serenading the shower curtains with Nickelback's _Savin' Me_). Dragged the razor over his cheeks and chin once he got out (the serum made shaving a constant pain in his ass, as he had to shave twice a day), and combed his hair to the side before brushing his teeth and putting on his cologne. With only a towel around his waist, he went and pulled out his undergarments and socks and got dressed. Feeling refreshed, he went down to meet Happy and got in the back of the car.

* * *

He never been to the penthouse level of the Avengers Tower. He knew the last three floors were reserved for Tony and Pepper, but he never actually been there. It was like stepping into a scene from _Buck Rogers_. "Holy cow," he said, eyes widening at all the futuristic tech, lights, chrome and glass.

"Welcome, Captain Rogers," JARVIS chimed from the ceiling as he walked further into the penthouse. A salt water tank lined one section of the wall. The coral and the reef fish bright and colorful as they darted about beneath the specialized lighting.

"Is that an octopus?" he asked, noting a quick movement and a flash of tentacles. Whatever type of lightning was used enhanced the yellows and oranges and blues of the coral, fish and rocks. The only fish he remembered keeping was a carnival goldfish he won, and it ended up dying a few weeks later.

"Yes. Mr. Stark as dubbed it Asshole. Considering it has an annoying habit of escaping," JARVIS said. He arched a brow and could've swore he heard an eyeroll in the AI's voice. "He gives it puzzles to keep it entertained."

"Oh." He noticed the collection of puzzles in the corner for the octopus. The elevator dinged, and he looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Tony," he said. The octopus crept out from the rocks it was hiding in.

"I see you've met Asshole," Tony said. "I got this for Pepper's birthday, after the Battle of New York. Nice set up."

"Yeah," he said, "it reminds of Flash Gordon or Buck Rogers." He waved his hand at the shiny chrome. "Very sci-fi."

Tony chuckled. "Wow, old school," he said, patting Steve's back. "C'mon, everyone is upstairs" — he went towards the elevator — "I tried yelling at the sky to get Thor to come, but so far I've had no such luck. Think he's ignoring me."

He chuckled, stepping into the elevator. The doors sighed close with a soft rumble and a soft futuristic hum sounded as they ascended. "I don't think phones reach Asgard."

"I don't think Thor knows how a phone works," Tony said. "So, I—"

"Kept this shindig low key?" he asked. "Cause I don't think I'm really ready for a full scale party, still — uh, adjusting to everything."

"I was going to say I invited my best friend, but yeah. It's low key. Just you, me, Rhodey and Barton." The elevator dinged, and the doors sighed open. This floor was similar to the last one — minus the salt water fish tank — expect there was a bar at one end, an intended circle with cushions on the edges and a pool table. It looked more like a living area. "C'mon, Cap, don't be shy." Tony stepped out of the elevator and headed to the bar, pulling out a frosty bottle of beer.

Steve stepped out, slack jaw and in awe of everything. Such blatant displays of luxury and wealth always baffled — and disturbed — him on some level. He chalked it up to growing up a poor immigrant's son in Brooklyn. The fact that people had enough money they could just throw around willy-nilly… he nearly fainted when Fury told him he had three and half million dollars in backpay (since he was never officially discharged), plus monetary compensation for "injuries sustained in the line of duty". He got a fat check from the government every month. "Steve," Tony called. He looked over at the bar. "Beer or do you want something else?"

Sighing, he walked over to the bar and grabbed the bottle of beer, the glass cold beneath his fingers. "I can't get drunk," he said and twisted the cap off the bottle. Tony stared, a bit wide-eyed, with the bottle opener useless in his other hand. He took a long swallow of the beer. "Not bad, better than the horse piss we had after the prohibition."

"You drank back then?" Clint asked, coming over to them. "I thought you were this pure innocent little lamb before the serum."

He tossed his head back and laughed. It always amazed him that people had this innocent impression about him. "Hell no," he said, "I was the little guy that was too dumb to run away from a fight. Always trying to fight guys twice my size."

"Had something against running away?" Clint asked.

He took a swig of beer. "Once you start running they won't let you stop. Stand up, push back…" he shrugged. "Didn't like bullies." He arched his brows. "Part of the reason I wanted to join the Army. Saw the Nazis as bullies."

"My dad said you looked terrified when you found out he was going to be helping with the procedure," Tony said as he poured some whiskey into a glass. Steve laughed, taking another sip of his beer.

"I saw his flying car presentation and it failed. So, when I saw that Howard Stark was going to be helping, I thought — Oh god, surely this is how I die." He leaned closer to Tony. "Speaking of flying cars, how's that coming?"

"Dead end, we're not focusing on flying cars. It was just a gimmick Dad used to show off Stark tech." He sipped at his whiskey and waved over a tall dark-skinned man. "Steve, this is my best friend, James Rhodes. We call him Rhodey."

"Captain," Rhodey said, offering his hand. Steve took it, shaking it heartily. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Thanks," he said.

"Ask him about college."

"Don't," Rhodey said, shooting a glare at Tony. Steve looked between the two men, curiosity piqued. "It's better if you don't know about his college days" — Rhodey gave an exaggerated shudder — "I still have nightmares."

"I'm hurt," Tony said, "I thought we had fun." Tony nudged Clint. "You wanna hear some good college stories, right Barton? You probably went to a trade school or something."

"I was a trick shot bowman for the circus," he said, picking up the bottle cap from Steve's beer bottle. He stood it up, putting on finger on it to hold it steady and then flicked it. Everyone watched as it bounced off one of the liquor bottles, over to the pillar and then onto the counter behind Tony. It spun for a few seconds before toppling over into the hole for the trashcan. "Then Shield found me and recruited me. Said I had a particular skill set they were interested in obtaining." He picked up is half drunk bottle of beer and took a long swallow. "Pay was better so I said yes."

"H-How did you do that?" Rhodey asked, impressed. Clint grinned, giving a little shrug. Steve shook his head and took another sip of his beer. The conversation fell into a comfortable lull, with everyone swapping stories. Clint and Rhodey seemed the most interested in stories of Howard Stark, while Tony interjected and poo-pooed anything positive Steve had to say about his father. The night wore on, the other three progressively getting more and more intoxicated. The conversation eventually shifted to women and relationships. Clint was mysteriously tight lipped about any romantic life he may or may not have, Rhodey admitted he'd been on a few days — to which Tony expressed shock and hurt he was kept out of the loop — and Steve assumed it was for good reasons. Tony and Pepper were still together, and the conversation swung back around to him.

He sipped at the whiskey Tony had poured him at some point, the amber liquid smooth in the glass. "How's the dance lessons?" Tony asked, taking the stool next to Steve. Rhodey has passed out on the couch, and Clint was playing with a bottle cap. He shrugged.

"Not bad. Have one tomorrow at ten," he said. Clint perked up at that, a brow arched. "Yes, I'm taking dance lessons, Clint. Can't dance."

"He's lying, he has a girlfriend he won't tell us about," Tony said, poking Steve in the shoulder. "Don'tcha Rogers?"

"For the last time Tony," he grumbled and tossed back the rest of his whiskey. This was a conversation he didn't want to have. The Commandos and Bucky never pressured him about his relationship with Peggy — well, Bucky may have mentioned it once or twice, but in a good-natured friendly way. Sighing, he ran his finger along the edge of the glass. "If… If there was someone I was interested in," he began, "what — if any — advice would you like to give me?"

"Find out what type of guy she likes and do the opposite," Clint said, "chicks dig mysterious badasses." Clint grinned. "The more aloof and bigger jerk-face you are the more she'll be into you."

"And if she seems uninterested, kiss her anyway. Women like men that are assertive and go after what they want," Tony added. He tapped the countertop. "Right this stuff down Steve, so you don't forget it."

"Okay." He pulled out his little note book and pen, scribbling down the previous bits of advice. Considering he never dated before, any advice would be helpful.

"Always ask her age and tell her how much she reminds you of your mother."

"Ask her about her sex kinks and if she's ever done it with a girl" — Tony waggled his brows — "then invite her for a threesome and jack off to her getting it on with another chick."

"When the subject comes to family, ask if her parents are alive and if she wants to have your babies." Clint frowned for a moment, the rim of the beer bottle at his lips. "Knowing how many people she's slept with before you is also a good thing to know, so ask her that."

"Always have sex on the first date," Tony said, smiling when Pepper walked in. "Isn't that right, sweetie?"

"Huh?" Pepper frowned, a bit confused. "What's right?"

"Always have sex on the first date?" Tony swallowed more whiskey. Pepper scowled. "Oh, don't look at me like that. Barton and I are giving Steve here sound dating advice."

"Hi, Miss Potts," Steve said, giving Pepper a sheepish grin. "There's this… well, if I do find someone I'd like to date, I might as well have some advice on what to do." He held up his notebook. "Never had a proper date before."

"Just call me Pepper, Steve," she said and held out her hand. "May I?" she asked. He nodded and passed the notebook over. Pepper's lips pursed into a frown and she smacked Tony.

"Ow." He rubbed his arm. "What did I do? I'm just trying to help him out."

"Don't listen to any of this Steve," she said, taking his pen and drawing a big x through the advice. "They're teasing you."

"Killjoy," Tony grumbled.

"If you want some advice, I'll give you some" — Pepper plopped herself into Tony's lap — "just be yourself. You're sweet and kindhearted. Any woman would kill to have a boyfriend like you. Just do what comes natural and be yourself."

"Be myself," he said, puffing his cheeks out in a big sigh. "Thanks Pepper." He slid off the stool and stood up. "I should be heading home. I have a dance lesson tomorrow at ten and I need to sleep."

"Alright," Tony said, his arm around Pepper's waist. "I hope you had some fun. Instead of being cooped up in that apartment of yours." He smiled. "JARVIS, tell Happy to take Steve home."

"Of course, sir," the AI replied. Steve smiled, waved goodbye to Clint and left. He thanked Happy when he dropped him off at his building and climbed the stairs to his apartment. Sharon didn't greet him at the door, so he just went in and got ready for bed.

He stared at the ceiling and wondered if he could do it. Ask Natasha out on a real date. Was it too soon to ask her tomorrow, should he wait a few days and then ask her again, but if he waited someone may ask her and she'll say yes and then he'll be out of luck. Peggy told him before he didn't know a bloody thing about women, Tony and Clint had taken advantage of that. Pepper told him to be himself and Peggy told him to follow his heart. "Tomorrow," he whispered to the darkness. "I'll ask her out on a proper date tomorrow." Mind made up, and a small ember of confidence burn in his breast, Steve closed his eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

**My birthday is tomorrow, everyone. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter. **

**Save an author; leave a review. **


	5. V

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Soft fingers traced the curve of her cheek, following the arch and down to her jaw. Gently, reverent, as if she was a goddess to be worshipped. Lips, tender and mild, pressed against hers and for a moment she forgot the coiling shadows of her past, the red saturating her ledger and savored the moment of being with him. Their noses touched when he pressed his forehead against hers and a soft giggle escaped her. "I… I don't want this to end," she whispered. If her eyes remained closed, the dream wouldn't end — that place between sleep and awake, where dreams felt like reality — she'll stay in that limbo forever. His hands trailed down her shoulders, coupling her elbows and she pressed herself closer to him. "Please… I don't want this to end."

He meowed, his finger tips brushing against her lower eye lid and he meowed again. Bit by bit, the dream shimmered away, and she woke up to see her kitten. "Liho," she whispered, trying to keep the disappointment form her voice. Wriggling her had free from her blanket she gave Liho a good morning pat. "Hey." She smiled when Liho meowed, butting her head against her hand. "You hungry? Is that why you woke me up?" she asked, fingers smoothing Liho's soft black fur. The kitten meowed again, pressed her head against her cheek while she kneaded her chest. "You know you have to get off me, so I can get up." Liho curled up on her chest, purring. Natasha wasn't about to complain though; with the blankets cocooned around her and the curtain down, the sunlight came in as muted golden rays. Dust motes danced within the sunbeams, almost as if they could sparkle. If she closed her eyes now, maybe she can reenter the dream and see him again.

He was unlike anything she ever imagined before: kind and gentle, sweet and considerate. He had an air of mystery about him as when she walked onto the dance floor his back was to her and he told her to close her eyes. Dancing with him blind was a thrilling experience. The waltz drifted around them, guiding the movements and she understood more about him from the way his muscular body pressed against hers, the way his strong hands touched and guided her. A whiff of cedar and cypress when she came back into his embrace after he twirled her. The scent evoked something in her, a niggling half remembered memory. Or was the memory half-forgotten, she couldn't tell, didn't want to know. In a rare moment of surrender, she succumbed to the dream and her mysterious partner.

She yawned opening her eyes again. The dream (and sleep) eluded her. Snuggling into the pillow, she stroked Liho with a half-hearted frown of annoyance. "You woke me up from a good dream." The kitten gave another meow. "You need to get off me first if you want me to feed you," she said, tapping the kitten's nose and laughing when Liho went cross-eyed trying to look at it. "Goof." Liho licked her paw to sooth her injured feelings. Natasha laughed, running her hand along Liho's back, smiling when the kitten arched her rear when she scratched at the base of her tail. "Okay, get off," she said and lifted Liho off her chest to set her on the floor.

Yawning and arching as she stretched her body in preparation of the day. Liho meowed when she got out of bed, weaving in and out of her stride. "Careful now, otherwise I'll break my neck," she chided as she walked to the bathroom to freshen up.

The reporter on the tv was speaking to an associate in Greece, where the Greeks had formed a new government due to their collapsing economy. The _New York Times_ was reporting on Bloomberg's ban on sugar rich sodas, who got killed in a firefight in between cops and gangsters in that bad part of town, the best sellers in each genre of literature and how well the baseball teams were doing. The newswoman was still talking to the flabby cheek associate about the state of the Greek economy and what it could me for the sluggish American one. He had more speculation that answers.

"Bullshit," she muttered around a mouthful of Cap'n Crunch Crunchberries. It was nothing but sugar, some grain (rice she thinks) and various artificial colors, but she loved it. American food was a lot better than Russian food. "Everyone is afraid of another Depression, so they are hoarding their money and not buying anything." She scooped up more cereal and stuck it in her mouth. "You need to restore confidence in the consumer." As if to affirm her own thoughts, Liho jumped onto the table with a soft trill, rubbing her cheek against the corner of the cereal box. "Hi, sweetie." She petted the cat. "Did you like your food?" Liho meowed again. "No, you aren't getting anymore wet food, don't want you" — Liho stuck her nose into Natasha's cereal bowl and began to lap at the milk — "hey, that isn't for you." She didn't do anything to stop the cat though. "Goofball."

Growing up in the Red Room, she never had a pet. Pets were unnecessary attachments, something to divert focus from the mission. In the same way they sterilized her, they forbade pets. It was ironic that she had bonded so quickly and adapted her life to fit Liho into it. Liho had adapted to life as a house pet rather well. "Okay," she said, pulling her bowl away and eating the last few bites of cereal. She downed the remains of the milk (even though Liho was lapping at it for a good two minutes). Standing up, she wiggled her toes in her pink fuzzy socks — Liho's sharp gaze caught the movement and in a few short moments her cat was attacking her foot as she walked to the kitchen sink. Laughing, she scooped the cat up and nuzzled her neck. "You're gonna be good while I go to work today?" she asked. Liho leaned her head back, looking at the world upside down. It was strange, for a brief moment she didn't feel like an elite Russian assassin, but a normal young woman living in New York with her cat about to head off to work. It was a life she could have had, one without pain and suffering, maybe she could even have a boyfriend — cedar and cypress — she looked around, wondering why she could smell such a fresh masculine scent. Liho twisted in her arms, wriggling free and licked her paw indignantly. "Just my imagination," she muttered as she went back to her room to get ready for the day; trying to ignore the phantasmal touch from her dreams.

* * *

The studio was dark when she opened the front door. The only source of light was the June sunshine through the window. Dust motes danced through the air like fairy ballerinas. The electricity hummed through the large overhead lights and their bright florescence almost blinded her. "Dmitri?" she called, walking pass, the desk that stood sentinel between the studio and the employees only section. The door creaked open as she went into the back where their headquarters was set up. She glanced at the monitors that had four views of Steve's apartment. He was shaving in the lower left corner. It was a shame the image was black and white. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up with his face half shaven, staring at the camera. She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Dmitri," she called again, but received no answer.

At the edge of her hearing she picked it up — voices. Following the sound, she found the door to Dmitri's room slightly ajar. Dmitri was talking to someone, her name came up a few times as well as Steve (though he was dehumanized to the target), and Dmitri's hurried assurances. "Dmitri?" she asked, pushing the door open and stepping inside. He snapped the little flip-phone shut and looked at her, his expression more befitting on a moonstruck cow than him. She arched a brow.

"Romanova… uh… when did you get in?" he asked, standing up and shoving the phone into his pocket.

"A few minutes ago." She tilted her head, flicking her gaze about the room in an effort to see if he was hiding something from her. "Why wasn't the studio ready? I have a lesson at ten," she asked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Romanova," he said, hanging his head. "I over slept."

"Uh-huh." She turned on heel and headed out. "Make sure you set an alarm next time." And closed the door behind her. "_Chert_." If Dmitri was reporting to the Red Room on her ability to remain uncompromised in the mission… she rubbed her temples, it was a headache she didn't need to deal with. The mission could end so easily. She knew where he lived, could sneak in, slip the blade into his heart and leave before his little blonde bodyguard ever realized he was dead. She'd be on a plane to Moscow by the time the headline _Captain America found dead in his home_ hit the newspapers. It could end oh so quickly; yet, something stayed her hand. She didn't have time to think about that now. Checking herself in the mirror, she pulled her hair into a ponytail grabbed a bottle of water and went out to the studio to greet Steve when he came for his ten o'clock lesson.

The studio was still empty. People walked by, obliviously to her and her troubles. Light glanced off hoods and windows of passing cars, people stared down at their phone screens and pigeons fluttered passed the window. Every time a well-built man walked pass the window, she tensed. It was a curious feeling, being nervous about seeing Steve. _Tap-tap-tap_, the sound of the pen rapping against the edge of the standing desk filled the empty studio. Every little sound sharp and crisp, even the tick-tock of the clock to her right. It was five minutes to ten, her throat was dry and palms sweaty. She took a long swallow of water from the bottle she brought with her.

The little bell over the door jingled. Steve walked in wearing a checkered shirt and khaki slacks. A tiny amused tugged at her lips as she bowed her head to hide it. He dressed like an old man. He was in his late twenties yet dressed like he was in his mid-nineties. It was funny, in pitiful pathetic humorless way. "Are you laughing at me?" he asked.

She smiled at him. "I would never do that," she said. "You look rather… 1940-ish." She took another sip of water as he huffed, looking flustered. "Is anyone helping you… navigate the here and now?" She wondered if he had any friends in this time. To help him adjust to everything and how the world worked. It must be incredibly lonesome; it was something she was familiar with.

"No." He shook his head. "Kinda muddling my way through. It's…" he slapped his hands against his thighs. "I never did have a lot of friends as a kid, not until I joined the Army, but even then..." He gave a little shrug. "So, you know" — there was that shy bashful smile, as if he was sharing a secret with her — "used to being alone I guess."

"Well, Steve, nobody should be alone" — she walked around the desk — "even those used to it." She went over to the stereo, pressing a button to turn it on. The CD inside gave a whirling buzz as the device read it. She held out her hand. "Ready?"

"Ready." He took it and pulled her close as the music began to play. It was a slow song, lazy notes drifting along to their swaying hips. It was if her dream became a reality. The scent of cedar and cypress wafted over her, coiling around her and easing her into a sense of safety. She frowned. Safety was something she never had. On the streets of Volgograd, letting your guard down meant death or maiming. In the Red Room, there was no letting your guard down. Anyone of her fellow students could have killed her. A bloody contest for the coveted spot of top student — the next Black Widow. In those sanguinary halls, she was forged into a weapon: a blade sharpened to a killing point.

She had no purpose. No past, no present, no future. No place in the world. A weapon only had one task: to kill. She was crafted for that. An arrow loosed from the bow, silent and deadly. A many-faced shadow with a poison-sweet grin. She had thought she cut out her heart long ago, cast it aside and watched it shrivel in the sun. Even when Alexi spoke sweet little words to her, she felt nothing. "I am nothing."

"Pardon?" Steve asked.

His words shook her from her reprieve, she stepped on his foot and pulled away. "Sorry, that was clumsy of me," she said, feeling bad about the wince on his face. "But you've gotten really good. I uh… got lost in thought." Awkwardly she patted his shoulder.

"Maybe we should try a faster song?" he asked as she grabbed the bottle of water. She tensed and unscrewed the cap to take a sip. All her life she had suppressed her emotions, kept them hidden and told herself feeling — _caring_ for another person was for the weak-willed and childishly naïve. The world was a bitter cruel place and her hands dripped with the blood of her victims. With Alexi — for a moment, she thought she could have that idyllic fairy tale. His death opened her eyes, made her realize that she would never have it. Then why do I feel like this? She screwed the lid back on the water bottle, setting it down. The simplicity of the task allowed her to focus, gather her emotions and lock them back up.

"Remember how I told you to trust me?" she asked, turning to face him. Something coiled in her gut when she saw the concerned expression on his face. It didn't make sense. She was nothing more to him than his dance teacher. Sure, he tried to ask her out yesterday but she had her personal policy.

"Yeah" — he frowned — "why are you bringing this up? I trust you to teach me how to dance. Do I need to trust you further than that?" he asked, confused.

She twisted her hands behind her back, torn between furthering her mission goal and this new desire of keeping her distance. Remember the mission. Nothing else is important but the mission. You have no place, no purpose. The only thing that matters is the mission.

"Natasha are you okay?" he put his hand on her shoulder. A gasped escaped her and she stared at him, getting lost in those blue eyes — bright and endless and free as the sky. "Maybe we should call it a day. I don't want to push you if you aren't feeling well. That'll be inconsiderate of me."

"No, no…" she shook her head. "Why don't we sit down." she sat down, motioning for him to do the same. He did, head tilting to the side like a curious dog. "I want to try something… different. One of the keys to making a good dance partner is inexplicable trust between partners. So" — she swallowed — "let's get to know each other."

"Okay."

"Tell me about yourself, anything." She clapped her hands and threaded her fingers, settling them in her lap. "Doesn't have to be anything deeply personal." She tapped her chin. "I'll go first," she said. "I grew up in Omaha, Nebraska and I had an Irish Terrier named Rusty as a kid." She smiled. "See, easy. Something like that."

"Okay" — he let out a quick breath — " it's just that… I'm not… sure what to say here," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. The way the blush spread from his neck to his cheeks, a sign of his creeping awkwardness — it was innocent and cute. A relaxing smile graced her lips and she picked at a loose thread on her pants. "Why don't you ask me something?"

"Alright" — she bit her tongue — "have you ever kissed a girl?"

A forced awkward laugh escaped him, and he hung his head low. The blush had covered his entire face now and it took him a moment before he was able to look at her. "Once" — he licked his lip and curled his lip into his mouth — "a long time ago."

"Nobody special then?" she asked, nudging his ankle with her foot, a playful smile on her face. He scoffed, looking out the window as he ran a hand over his jaw. "Surely you've met _someone_."

"Nah." He rolled his eyes. "Kinda hard to find someone with shared life experience."

She shrugged. "That's okay, just make something up."

"What like you?" he challenged, cocking a brow. She flushed, stammering. "You don't look like you grew up in Nebraska or had a dog."

"Caught me," she said, laughing, "I grew up in Seattle and had a cat." She leaned back on her hands. "But the truth is a matter of circumstance. It's not all things to all people all the time" — she smiled — "and neither am I."

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. "Kinda hard to trust someone when you don't know who that someone really is."

She blinked. Trust was for fools, it shifted and crumbled like sand — a poor foundation for any partnership. But mutual self interest — now that was a solid bedrock which she was able to build a new science of understanding with anyone. It was drilled into her during her childhood in the Red Room. Steve destabilized that foundation. "Yeah" — she looked away, watching the people and cars through the window. It looked like a warm day, humid, the scent of concrete and exhaust mixing together to create a familiar urban haze. — "Who do you want me to be?"

He hung his head, pressing his finger into the squishy dance mat, before looking up at her. "How about a friend?"

She laughed, smiling. His naïveté amazed her sometimes. "What and get coffee later?" she asked, teasing. It wouldn't be breaking her policy. It wasn't a date — just two friends going to get coffee and talking about mundane things like the weather. Nothing romantic about it.

"That's what friends do now, right?" he asked, sounding a bit shy. "I mean, I wouldn't mind that."

She laughed, standing up and offering her his hand. He took it and she helped him to his feet. "Well," she said, patting his chest, "lucky for you — getting coffee isn't a violation of my no dating policy."

"Great. Tomorrow around noon?" he asked, a half smirk pulling on his lips. She bowed her head, stamping down the blush that wanted to spread across her cheeks. "If it doesn't sound too much like a date, that is."

"A friend date" — she poked him in the sternum playfully — "there's a difference, Steve." A wistful sigh escaped her as he laughed. It was like music to her ears, a wave of peace washing over her. In another lifetime she could listen to his laughter all day.

"Okay," he said, "tomorrow at noon then." He pulled his sleeve back and glanced at his watch. "And I have to get going," he said, "gotta buy groceries. Meet me tomorrow at the Starbucks on the corner."

"Okay, see ya Steve," she said as he left the dance studio. Behind her, Dmitri cleared his throat. She turned, staring at him. "All apart of the mission," she said, "if I move in too fast, he may get suspicious. Becoming his friend, ensures that I can get close so when he drops his guard —"

"Just don't forget the mission, Romanova." Dmitri returned to the back of the dance studio.

* * *

The high tone and fancy to-do feel of the gallery opening was something that — ironically — made her feel right at home. The sleek black evening dress that was off her shoulders with thigh length skirt that had a slit up the side caught the eye of many men (and some women) and she flashed dazzling smiles as she sashayed around with a flute of champagne. Her hair was twisted into an elegant bun at the base of her neck, a diamond clasp keeping it in place and it matched her diamond earrings and necklace. Nobody would have guessed she was a dance teacher.

The art was exquisite, but it was just a riot of colors to her having no art experience. Steve had wanted to bring her here as his date, but she found it hard that a simple man like Steve would dawn a suit and make polite small talk for an evening surrounded by the elite of New York's Upper East side. Her heels click-clacked on the marble floor and she made polite demure smiles to the balding pork bellied businessmen in their suits. She drifted from cluster to cluster, pausing long enough to make a few minutes of conversation before going to the next cluster, her eyes ever searching Steve's board shoulders and head of blond hair. She was standing in front of a landscape piece — a lovely one of the mountains with a forest below in the full force of summer — when he found her. "Hey," Steve said as he came over to her with a wide smile on his face. "I thought you couldn't make it?"

"Well, my plans changed," she said, hiding her smile behind her champagne flute and looked him over. He cleaned up well, the suit accenting the sharp angles of his body. The shirt was almost too small for him — if his straining pecs were any indication of it. "Sorry, I didn't call."

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it's fine. You made it so that's all that matters." He turned his attention to the painting. "You have a good eye," he said.

"I do?" she arched a brow. She just liked the painting because she found it tranquil and relaxing. "I know nothing about art."

"I went to art school before I joined the army," he said and began to explain to her the finer details of the painting: from the lighting to the choice of color and brush technique. She didn't pay attention to most of it, too caught up in how animated he got and the way his eyes lit up when he smiled. He had a passion for art and it was evident when he gushed about brush strokes, even going to so far as to mime how the artist would have flicked his or her wrist to get the dapple effect on the clouds.

"Steve, I thought I —" They turned to see Tony Stark briskly walk over to him. She noted the faint electric blue glow in the center of his chest. She frowned. "Hello, who's your friend?" he asked.

"Oh" — Steve flushed — "Tony, this is Natasha —" he stopped, cheeks tinting as he looked at her.

"Natasha Rushman," she said, shaking Tony's hand. "I'm a dance teacher" — she smiled — "Steve is one of my students and he invited me."

"I thought you said you didn't have a plus one?" Tony asked. Steve flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well—"

"My plans changed and so we came separately," Natasha said, sipping her champagne. "I was afraid I'd miss him, but I didn't. He found me." She smiled at Steve and not for the first time, she wondered how far down his blush went. "He was telling me about this piece and the techniques used."

"Oh cool," Tony said, "I don't know anything about art, I just fund stuff. My" — he paused, turning around to look for someone — "where did she go?" he asked to nobody in particular. Natasha tapped her nails against the glass of her flute. "I could've swore she was right — there she is! Pep!" he flagged down a woman with coppery red hair and blue eyes. The woman wore a slate blue backless dress and an elegant diamond necklace and matching earrings. Tony pecked her cheek. "Where were you?"

"The ladies' room," she whispered, smiling at Natasha and Steve. Natasha arched a brow, wondering who this woman was. "I'm Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries," she said, offering her hand. Natasha took it.

"Natasha Rushman, I'm a dance teacher and Steve's—"

"Oh, Tony did tell me he was taking dance lessons. I didn't know he was actually dating his dance teacher." Pepper beamed. "That's wonderful, I think."

"Pepper, she's not—" Steve began.

"We're not dating," Natasha said, glancing at Steve with a melancholic yet hopeful expression. "We're just friends. I don't date students."

"Yeah," Steve said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We're just friends." He beamed, but she could tell Pepper and Tony weren't convinced or if they were they chose to not believe it. "This is a friend date, right Nat?" he asked.

Nat. The nickname caught her off guard. It was short, diminutive and spoke to an intimacy she didn't think they had obtained in their relationship. Yet… she liked it. It was unique and hers. Nobody had ever given her a nickname before. She had pet names from wealthy targets, but never a nickname. It took some effort to school her features to keep the happy smile at bay. "Yes," she said, blithely, "a friend date." She took a long swallow of her champagne. Pepper and Tony seemed convinced for the moment, and the four of them settled into a comfortable conversational flow.

Tony and Steve discussed the finer points of world politics and how engineering and art were kissing cousins in a sense. She and Pepper talked about the guests. She explained to the other woman the quirks and tells of the businessmen and their wives, the women that made it to high profile positions by merit and which ones slept their way to the top. It was fun gossiping about these snobby New Yorkers with Pepper. Pepper either confirmed or denied her guesses (though most of them were correct. She wouldn't be good at her job if she couldn't read someone like an open book from a simple glance). Waiters with silver platters of tiny food came around about a half hour after she and Pepper started their gossip.

"You know," Pepper said, after swallowing a bite of a tiny sandwich. "I could use someone like you."

"Oh?" she arched a brow. "In what way?" she plucked a small cheese covered cracker from a passing waiter's tray. The cheese was brie and the cracker was a generic Ritz.

"You're good with people, right?" Pepper asked, finishing off her finger sandwich. "As you can probably imagine, running a business like Stark Industries is extremely time consuming and I had to let go of my day time assistant recently. Trying to replace her has been trying to find a pin in a needle stack."

"I believe the expression is: 'trying to find a needle in a hay stack'." She smiled, sipping her champagne. Pepper chuckled.

"No, this time it's a pin in a needle stack. Anyway, would you like to be my assistant?" she asked. She blinked several times and grabbed a tiny cheeseburger as the waiter passed by and ate it quickly. Pepper watched her like a hawk.

"I would… have to consider it," she said, "as you know I run a dance studio and —"

"Oh, that's no bother," Pepper said, waving her hand dismissively. "It'll be a normal nine to five. I'll try really hard not to call you after working hours. You can do evening classes for your studio and classes on weekends." Pepper snagged a tiny cheeseburger and popped it into her mouth with a huge put-upon sigh. "It's just that I used to be the bulwark between Tony and the world and now I don't have my own bulwark."

The feeling's mutual, Natasha thought. She never had a bulwark between the world's hard realities and her innocence. Instead she built them on her own, closed off her heart and hardened her mind. "I'll have to think about it," she said, after a few moments. Pepper nodded and opened the black clutch she held and pulled out a sleek business card.

"Here's my card. Call me if you want the position."

"Thank you." She took it and slipped it away. "I will." She looked over her shoulder, Tony and Steve coming over to them. "Well, I'm afraid I have to get going." She gave them all a sad smile. "Morning lessons, you know."

"Let me walk you to the curb," Steve said, gesturing to the exit. She smiled, schooling her face to keep the blush hidden. "It's the least I could do."

"No, I'm fine," she said, touching his arm. "Thank you though." She pressed her cheek against both of his as she made kissing sounds in the manner of the French. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said, looking a bit disappointed. "Tomorrow at Starbucks."

"Rendez-vous amical numéro deux," she cooed, giving him a flirty smile before she slipped into the crowd and out of his sight. She wove her way to the elevator and once the gilded doors closed she let out a huge breath, her hand on her stomach. "Breathe, breathe," she told herself as the elevator hummed its way down to the lobby. She smiled as she passed people getting into the elevator and wove her way through the crowd until she was outside. Flagging down a cab, she gave the driver her address and she sped off into the late spring New York evening.

* * *

The apartment was dark save for the patches of orange light from the street lamps below. Shadows, deep and black, oozed out from the corners. Every now and then a car drove pass, sirens blared somewhere in the distance and a dog could be heard barking. Even at this hour the city was still awake. There was a reason why people said New York was the city that never sleeps. "Stupid heels," she grumbled as she kicked them off as soon as she got in. Whomever invented high heels was a sadist, in her opinion. Groaning, she leaned against the wall and rubbed her feet, trying to ease the ache from her arch. A soft mew came from the darkness and two bobbing glowy green eyes trotted over to her. Liho mewed and she flipped on the light; Liho blinked against the sudden brightness. "Hi." She smiled. "Bet your hungry." She pushed away from the wall and went to the kitchen turning on the light. Plucking Liho's bowl from the sink, she gave it a quick rinse before putting a dollop of Friskies wet cat food in. "Here you go." She set it down for Liho to eat. The cat gave a small trill and ate. "Good girl." Smiling, Natasha pet the cat for a few moments, then grabbed a bottle of Russian vodka and went to her room to take a quick shower.

The hot water cascaded down her lithe body. She traced the faded scars, remembering how she earned each of them. Life was brutal in the Red Room, pain was a constant companion that you eventually learn to ignore. From pain came perfection. Sympathy and compassion were antithesis to what the Black Widow is. Kill without remorse; leave no witnesses. They put a gun in her hand at nine, told her to kill a grown man at ten (kill his nephew and son too — no witnesses _ever_), pitted her against her fellow students. Only the breakable broke. Tipping her head into the hot stream of water as she remembered the slick sticky wetness of another girl's blood over her hand, as she drove the knife into her gut to secure her place as Black Widow. "Love is for children," she said as she scrubbed her body raw. She got out of the shower.

Flopping onto her bed with a world-weary sigh, she uncorked the bottle of vodka and turned on the tv. She took a long swallow of the clear liquor, welcoming the burn of alcohol down her throat and the sudden flush it brought to her cheeks. "…and we just got word that Super League stars Topher Owen and Crimson Jonsson are engaged" — the entertainment reporter smiled blithely — "this comes from Jonsson's publicist and no date has been set for the wedding, but rest assured we will be the first to inform you when there has been one. Topher and Crimson have been dating on and off since they met on the set of 2004 _1600_. So, congratulations for the happy couple."

She rolled her eyes and changed the channel. Everyone was falling in love, hooking up into duos. It was nauseating at times. She took another swig of vodka; Liho jumped on the bed, butting her hand for pets. "Good cat," she whispered, stroking her silky black fur. The movie was an action-comedy adventure, about what she couldn't say but it was mind numbing enough (especially with the vodka) that she could drift into her thoughts. The mission was proving challenging. Normally, she had no problem getting close to a target, convincing them to drop their guard while maintaining her professional distance. But with Steve it was different… he had given her a nickname — _Nat_ — and they had only met a few times — dance lessons no less — yet he had called her Nat as if he had known her for years, as if they always ran into each other at fancy art gallery openings. As if they were something more than what they are. Groaning and setting the bottle on her nightstand, she rubbed her face before picking up Liho. "Do you have any advice?" she asked, jostling her cat. "What do I do?" Liho licked her nose. "Should I ditch our date tomorrow or go?" Liho looked away, unhappy with her current manhandling. "Right." She tucked the cat against her chest and gave her a few strokes before Liho hopped away. "Fine," she said, "didn't want your advice anyway." She got out of bed and went to her discarded dress on the floor and fished out Pepper's business card. _Pepper Potts, CEO Stark Industries_ and then her phone number and office extension. She grabbed the vodka for another swig.

This could be a golden opportunity. If she could infiltrate Stark Industries and steal their information… the Red Room would surely see that as a boon. Iron Man was just as dangerous as Captain America. Especially since Iron Man had that annoying habit of going after Stark Industries' weapons and blowing them up. It was an open secret that the Russian government bought Stark's weapons via a third party and smuggled it into chaotic regions to further their own geopolitical agenda. As Pepper Potts' personal assistant, she would be privy to all sorts of inner company workings that she could pass onto Dmitri to send to the Red Room. This secondary mission could buy her time to complete her primary mission. "Then again Dmitri could just say no," she muttered, pressing the glass lip of the bottle to her lips and taking another long swallow. Her head swam, and she felt the urge to pee, plus the movie was over anyway. If she drank any more she'd get drunk and that wouldn't bode well for her morning dance classes or her friend date with Steve. Sighing, she shoved the stopper back into the bottle and put it back in the kitchen cabinet before heading to the bathroom and then to bed.

Liho joined her as soon as she snuggled into her pillow, a moving black shadow against the darkness. "You think I can do this, huh?" she asked, stroking the kitty. Liho purred, slowly closing her eyes. "You're right," she said. "This… this is the right way. I need to get my feet under me and my head back in the game. He's different but he's still a man. Just have to approach it differently." Liho mewed sleepily. "Good night malen'kiy."

* * *

The noon sunshine was warm on her back. She had closed her studio for the rest of the day, unsure how long this was going to take with Steve and depending on his advice how long it would take to get a meeting with Pepper. She had left Dmitri to make the phone calls to the parents of the kids for the after-school time slots — he was supposed to be her assistant after all. The Starbucks had an outdoor set up, with green tables and chairs and large green shade umbrellas. Couples and groups of friends already sat beneath them, chatting about the mundane things of urban living, the latest sports and celebrity gossip, the latest political scandal and the newest summer blockbuster at the theater. The younger people took selfies and pictures of their drinks and their friends. Scattered among the groups was a loner or two, tucked into a nook with a book or a laptop, happily oblivious to the world. The scent of coffee — strong and bitter, reminding her of the rainforests of Colombia — mingled with the humidity and the exhaust and that hot asphalt funk. "Nat!" Steve pushed away from the corner, waving at her.

She smiled and trotted over to him. "Hey, you look" — like an old man — "good," she said, smiling at him. He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets of his khaki slacks. "I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"Nah, people watching is kinda fun. Good reference for drawing later," he said. He looked her up and down and smiled. "You look nice."

She smiled. "Thanks. I just threw something on." She plucked at the black spandex of her yoga pants. It complimented the spaghetti strap tank top and sports bra combo she decided for her top. A large truck drove by, belching noxious black exhaust as it rumbled passed them. She coughed, waving her hand in front of her face to clear the fumes. Steve looked a bit queasy as he coughed to clear his lungs. "Shall we go in?" she headed towards the door.

"Yeah." He over took her in a few strides and held the door open for her. The gesture caught her off guard, but she didn't let it show — instead she smiled and walked in, politely thanking him. They stood in line, staring at the menu. He let out a large tired sigh; she glanced at him. "They ruined coffee in this century," he said.

"How?"

"They made it taste like dessert," he said, wrinkling his nose. "Everything's so sweet." He folded his arms over his large chest and she could have sworn she heard a few threads snapping in the seams of his blue button down. "Do you know what you're getting?"

"Iced caramel macchiato." She smiled at him. "You?"

"Not sure," he said, she watched him look over the menu. "Do you recommend anything?" he asked. She bit her lip, looking over the menu. They took a step closer to the counter. The coffee grinder whirled into life as the espresso machine hissed. The baristas behind the counter moved in a flurry of moments not dissimilar to a dance, calling out drinks and names to the waiting patrons. It looked like chaos to an outsider, but Natasha could tell there was a rhythm and flow to their movements. Organized chaos with conversation and the latest pop hit super imposed. "What about an americano?" she asked.

"Really?" he asked, an amused half-smile on his lips. "Is it because I'm—"

"No," she said, quickly and rolled her shoulders. "It's just that there's coffee in it with no sweet stuff. Won't taste like dessert." She bumped her hip against his. "I won't have to hear you complain about how coffee was better back in the army when it was nothing but hot black sludge."

He tossed his head back at that and laughed heartily. "Hey, that was some pretty good thick black sludge." His blue eyes twinkled. "Don't knock it until you try it."

"No thanks," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "I have a refine pallet." She laughed at the absurdity of the comment. Being with him was so comfortable, like two peas in a pod, as if they had been friends forever. She put her hand on her chest and sighed. "Go with the americano."

"Fine," he said, "I'll trust you and your so-called refine pallet." He nudged her with his hip. She shoved him — which didn't budge him an inch, the man was a solid wall of muscle — with a laugh. They were next at the counter and she ordered for them; he added a sandwich and pulled out his wallet.

"I can pay," she said, as he handed over a twenty to the barista ringing them up. He smiled and put the change in the tip jar and followed her to the pick-up counter. "You didn't have to pay. It's not a date."

He shrugged. "I wanted to." The barista handed him his sandwich and he began to eat. "Do men not pick up the tab on dates anymore?"

"This isn't a date, Steve," she said, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "It's a _friend_ date."

"Still a date," he pointed out around a mouthful of food, "even if it's not a date-date." She frowned. "This is a good sandwich." He arched a brow. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You don't know how dating works, do you?" she asked, realizing that he may have no idea what goes into modern courtship. He shook his head. "Well, on outings with friends it's acceptable to go Dutch — you pay for your own stuff in a sense." She tugged at her ponytail. "And on romantic dates it's a bit different. Sometimes the woman pays."

"Why?" he asked, disgruntled. "Is her date that cheap that she has to pay for it? That's just rude." He polished off the sandwich as she collected their drinks. He tossed the wrapper away and snagged a napkin. "If you're gonna take a dame to a nice place you better be able to pay for it and treat her right." He thanked her as she handed over his drink. "Women paying for the dates. What an idiotic idea."

"Women makes good money these days, Steve," she said as she wandered through the crowded café and found a nice quiet little booth by the window. She slid into it and he opposite her.

"Women worked in my day too, but still the man paid for the dates."

"Some women find it insulting to their independence."

"It's not insulting, it's called being a gentleman." He sniffed his drink before popping the lid off and blowing on it. "Something that I think is sorely lacking. Everyone seems to self-absorbed and rude."

Well, he does have a point. "It's just… did anyone explain to you about the feminist movement in the seventies?" she asked. He arched a brow and she rubbed her face. "It was a movement where women demanded work place equality, equal pay for equal work, and a bunch of other civil rights that they felt they lacked. Abortion was legalized in the late 70s and—"

"What's abortion?" he asked. She sighed, taking the moment to sip her drink and watch the people walk by in the bright sunshine. "Nat?"

"Please, don't call me that," she said. He frowned, and it made his sunny disposition crumble. "Why? I like you, we're friends and so—"

"Natasha, please." She sipped her drink. "Abortion is… I think you should google this."

"Google?" he wrinkled his nose, and she smiled despite herself. "You mean look it up on the internet?"

"Yeah, you'll find a lot more information on the subject than what I know. But anyway, since the seventies, the idea of chivalry and gentlemanliness has basically died. Women see holding the door open and having a man pull out their chair or taking their coat or even paying for a date as a slight against their independence and self-autonomy."

"What about you?" he asked. "Do you think being chivalrous is a slight against your independence?" He sipped his coffee. Her lips twisted into a pensive frown as she leaned back, watching the people come and go, those walking down the street and the cars driving along. A pigeon landed on the windowsill and gave a few coos before flying away. The coffee was good, the coconut milk, a sweet contrast to the saltiness of the caramel and the bitterness of the coffee. Across from her, Steve sat, waiting for her answer. A man out of time, his morals and values decades out of date. Yet, they almost felt needed in this era of hyper sexualization and ego driven self-absorption, when the world seemed to ever be on the tipping point to descending into utter dystopian chaos.

"I… like it," she said, slowly. "It makes me feel special. As if I'm the most important person in the moment, as if the only thing that mattered was my comfort and ease in navigating the world."

He sipped his coffee. "My mother was a brave woman. Worked as a nurse at two different tuberculous hospitals just to make ends meet. Yet, she smiled and let the man hold the door open for her. Raised me on her own when it wasn't the norm. She taught me how to be a man, taught me how to treat a woman with respect," he said.

"What was her name?" she asked.

"Sarah," he said, his voice soft and melancholic. "Died when I was eighteen." He cradled his cup in both of his hands. Swallowing, she put her hand on his wrist.

"We have them when we have them," she said, trying to give him an encouraging smile, "I'm sure she treasured every moment she had with you and I'm sure she's proud of the son she raised."

Steve didn't meet her gaze, his through tightened as he swallowed. "Yeah," he said, tears in his voice. "I'm sure she is."

"So," she said, changing the subject, "I have another job offer."

"What about your dance studio?" he asked as he pressed his palms to his eyes. "I like taking your lessons."

She smiled. "Well, this'll be a nine to five position and" — she pulled out the business card Pepper gave her — "it's position for Pepper Potts' assistant."

Steve's eyes widen. "Oh. Wow. I've met Pepper a few times, she's real nice," he said. "I think you should do it. You could probably do the studio on the side." He sipped his coffee. "If you want to that is. Only if you want."

She tapped the card on the able and sipped her drink. "Do you think it's a good idea?" she asked. "I haven't told my assistant that I could be cutting his hours to take this position. I mean, he needs to eat too."

He shrugged. "I think you should. It sounds like a good offer and like I said, Pepper is really nice and she's understanding. If you want to do this, I totally think you should do it." He finished his coffee. "Shall we mosey?" he asked.

"Who says mosey these days?" she asked and glanced at her watched. "I can't. I need to get home, call Pepper." She got up and stretched, snatching up her drink.

"When can I see you again?"

"Tomorrow, for your lesson," she said, a little smirk on her face before she took a sip of her drink.

He chuckled. "That's not what I meant."

I know. "I don't know Steve. I think a lot is going to be happy for me right now and as much as I like hanging out with you" — she clenched the straw between her teeth — "I don't want to get into a serious relationship. And for me all my serious relationships start off as friends and then they quickly evolve into something more."

"I see." He grabbed a napkin and scribbled something on it. "My number," he said, handing the napkin to her. "If you change your mind. I'll be more than happy to get coffee with you again or maybe we can get pizza. I still remember some good pizza joints from back in my day."

"Are they still around?" She took the napkin; swallowing when his fingers brushed hers.

"A few." He got up. "See ya tomorrow, call me if the time changes." He shoved his hands into his pockets and left the café. She sat back down and glanced at his number as she fished out her phone and called Pepper.

* * *

**And I got it done. Yay. **

**I saw Endgame nineteen days ago. I didn't like it. It was part of the reason why this chapter too so long. I'm also working on another Romanogers fic called Miracles so be on the look out for that. **

**Save an author; leave a review. **


	6. VI

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

The only sound in the dim apartment was the sound of a pencil skritch-skratching over paper. Every now and then, Steve would erase a line or wet his finger on his tongue to get the shading just right or he'd look up, staring vaguely at the furniture he didn't choose, the pictures he would never had bought in a million years. It all felt like someone tried to pretend to be him and selected everything. He knew Fury and the agents at Shield meant well when they did this for him, but it felt manufactured — a Captain America cookie cutter apartment. It only added to his miserable mood and he'd go back to sketching the image of Eeyore, asking the other denizens of the 100 Acre Wood if he could play with them only to get rejected. A loud banging on his door jerked him from his drawing. Sighing, he got up and opened it to see Sharon holding a paper grocery bag with grease stains on the bottom, a bag of tortilla chips and a plastic box of seven-layer dip. "Do you always keep your apartment so dark?" Sharon asked, peering passed him at the dark apartment behind him.

"Only when I'm feeling particularly miserable," he said, plucking the pencil from behind his ear and sticking it in the spine of his sketchbook before closing it. "What brings you by?" he let her come in.

"Well part of my job is to make sure you're okay and I noticed you looked a bit blue this afternoon," she said as she set the bag of food on the table, "so I thought this may cheer you up a bit."

"What's in the bag?" he jerked his chin at it. She opened it and handed him a wrapped burger. "How many burgers did you buy?" he asked as he accepted the offered food. She smiled, looking around until she found the remote for the tv and turned it on. The laugh track came on cue after the joke. He looked at the tv and frowned. The setting was in an office and the employees were doing amusing antics, shouting _parkour! Parkour! Parkour!_ While leaping over the furniture. "What are we watching?" he asked as he unwrapped the silvery glossy paper from his greasy bacon cheeseburger. He took a bite, savoring the tasted of charred beef smothered in ketchup, melted cheese and peppery bacon. The crisp acidity of the tomatoes and pickles cutting through the grease.

"_The Office_," she said opening the dip and the bag of chips. "And I went down to a nearby diner and told them to fill the bag with cheeseburgers. Was like a hundred and fifty dollars."

"Sharon," he scolded, "you didn't have to spend that much on food for me." He looked at the burger in his hand guiltily. "I can pay you back. It's not problem."

"Steve, it's fine. Sometimes friends spend a bunch of money on each other because they want to. I saw how miserable you looked after you came back, so I went and bought food. Food always cheers people up." She grinned. "Especially greasy diner burgers."

He smiled, wiping the grease from his lips with a napkin. "I still want to repay you. I… I don't feel comfortable with you spending that much money on me."

"It's fine Steve, trust me." She got up and got two glasses of water and came back to the couch. "So what were you drawing?"

"Nothing," he said, "just doodling."

"How did your friend date go?" she asked. He sighed and took a huge bite of his burger. The motion of chewing helped him think and organize his thoughts. Thoughts he didn't even know how to begin to process. Chief among them was the profound sense of being hurt for no discernable reason. It wasn't like Natasha told him he was the scum of the earth and she never wanted to see him again. She just wanted to put some distance between them due to her past experiences. "That bad huh?"

"No, it wasn't bad. It was great actually" — he licked some ketchup off his lip, shook his head and tuned his attention back to the tv. — "I think I scared her off." He took another bite.

"How?" Sharon asked. "What did you do? Ask her to move in with you?" She scooped up some dip with a chip. "Because that doesn't strike me as you."

"No." He shook his head. "Nothing like that. I tried to ask her for a second friend date. She told me that a lot was happening for her right now and that she had past relationships that started off as friends and then got too serious too fast." He took a sip of water, quirking a smile at the amusing antics of the office employees. "Peggy always did say I didn't know a bloody thing about women." The show broke for a commercial — one about the latest cleaning product — and he fished out his broken phone. The epicenter of the damage was a thumb print size crack, fissures of glass spider-webbing out all over the screen. Sharon gave a low whistle at the damage. "She texted me back, said she had fun and I was going to ask her what I did wrong — if I came off too hot blooded" — he set the ruined device by his glass of water — "but it started ringing and I tried to answer it, but I pressed too hard."

"Stark's not gonna be happy you broke _another_ phone," she pointed out. He rolled his eyes and finished off his burger before going for another one."

"Maybe if they built the phones a bit more durable—"

"Hey, don't go blaming the phone manufacturers. You were frozen for seventy years. Nobody had to factor in super soldier strength when they designed smartphones." The show came back on. He watched it with mild interest.

"I know," he said, hunching his shoulders up as he undid the wrapper on his second burger. "It's just that…everything is so delicate. I feel like if I sneeze I'll break something." He rubbed his face. "You're a dame" — Sharon arched a brow — "I mean girl" — she arched her other brow — "I mean woman" — he swallowed down his blush — "Can you answer a question?"

"Depends," she said, rolling her shoulders as she leaned back into the cushions of the couch. "What's the question."

"What does it mean when a da— _woman_ says a lot is happening for her and she likes spending time with you, but she doesn't want to get too serious?" he asked, scratching at his temple. "So… what does it mean? I would ask Tony, but I think he'll give me bad advice." He took a huge bite from his burger. _The Office _was an entertaining show, he decided. "I scared her off, didn't I?" he asked after swallowing.

"No, no," Sharon said, running a hand through her hair. "You didn't, Steve. I mean you like her—"

"I have to unfinished paintings of her in my studio." He flushed. "Maybe I should get rid of them." He bowed his head and took a few more bites. He could feel Sharon's eyes on him, searching for something. He swallowed. "I… I well, I had a crush and I wanted to get my feelings out — so I… I draw when I need to think."

"Did you draw my aunt?" she asked. He blushed and took a long swallow of water. "It's okay, you don't have to answer that question."

"It… It was different," he said, "I think I did a few doodles, in-between the war bond shows and all the other propaganda movies they had me do and the USO shows. But a full painting — no, didn't have time." He looked at the ceiling. "I probably would have if things had been different." He finished off the second burger. "But did I scare Natasha?" he asked.

"No. I don't think so," she said, "I mean…" she rubbed her face. "This is difficult." The tv turned over to the local news. She turned it off and shifted on the couch to look at him. He grabbed a handful of chips and began working on the dip. "Why do you like her again? Do you know anything about her?"

"Well… she dances. She grew up in Seattle with a cat. I also feel comfortable around her, as if I could talk to her about anything. Other than that, I don't really know much." He frowned. "Is that a bad thing? Should I ask for more personal details next time? I didn't want to seem like I was prying into her private life." He scratched his head. "Tony and Clint told me to ask about her parents and her sexual partners, but Pepper told me not to."

"Listen to Pepper," she said. "And I think she's trying to end things with you before they start."

He tipped his head back with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. "Great." He finally finds someone he likes, and she wants to end things before they even begin. "Why would she do that?" he asked, fixing a stare at Sharon. "Doesn't she like me? I mean, I'm Captain America! Tony said women would be lining up in _droves_ to date me. And the one I want doesn't want anything to do with me."

"Okay first" — Sharon grabbed a chip and popped it into her mouth — "stop thinking of her as a prize or something you want. And second, does she even know you're Captain America?"

He puffed his cheeks out in a long-winded sigh. "I think she might, but I'm not sure how she would know that."

"Google probably," she said. "It doesn't matter. Point in your favor: she likes you not because you're Captain America, but because you're you." She ate another chip. "She wouldn't have agreed to a friend date if she didn't already like you."

"That's good to know." He smiled as he ate more of the dip. "I like this dip," he said. She grinned. "But I came off too strong. I should have never asked for another friend date."

"Maybe it was the wording that spooked her." Sharon tapped her lip. "Maybe if you had said that you two should hang out more, she would be more open to another outing."

"Oh." He rubbed his upper lip. "You can have a burger," he said, gesturing to the paper grocery bag. She shook her head. "What do I now? Try and contact her?"

"Nope," she said, "the ball is in her court now. You made your intentions known to her, anymore pushing and you'll come off as a creep. Give her some space and the time she needs to sort her feelings and if she changes her mind or realizes that she also liked hanging out with you, then she'll contact you and you can go from there." She snagged some more chips. "But the key here, Steve, is to take your cues from her."

He nodded, finishing the chips in his hands before going for another burger. He ate half of it in silence. "I just hate feeling like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm someone she could step on." He tugged free a strip of bacon and ate it. "I felt like that all my life. Even after the serum, people still treated me like I was not enough."

"Trust me," Sharon said, "that's not what's going on here. I think Natasha just had one too many bad relationships and she's afraid that once she lets you get too close you'll do a one-eighty and turn out to be like every other jerk she's dated."

"Oh." That revelation was humbling. It didn't make him feel better, but it was comforting to know that it wasn't because she didn't see him as lesser. "Okay. I'll go tomorrow to Avengers Tower and get Tony to fix my phone and then just wait."

"Don't obsessively check it. That's bad and you'll end up being a creep. Just play it cool and act normal. Go to your lessons, treat her like you always have. Your goal is to show her that even though you had a taste of what a relationship _could be _like with her, you are going to let her take the lead and call the shots."

He nodded. It was all good advice and made a lot of sense. "What's abortion?" he asked, changing the topic. Sharon choked on her water, eyes bulging out at him. "Sorry." He grimaced. "It's just that Natasha and I were talking about how things changed for women since my time and one of the things she mentioned was the legalization of abortion and… so what is it?"

"Uh…" Sharon's cheeks turned pink. "I think you should look this up online. Go to Wikipedia. It'll tell you all about it. Better than google because you can get some really disturbing images on google."

"Oh." He frowned, wondering what was so bad about abortion if nobody was willing to talk to him about it. "Thanks." He took a sip of water. "Any plans for later? Or did you bank on staying with me until I felt better?"

"I mean we could go down to the bar and get drinks" — she glanced at her watch — "happy hour should be starting soon. You wanna go? I know a good place nearby."

"Ever since the serum, drinking has never really appealed to me," he said, taking another bite of his burger. "Can't get drunk." He gave a disarming smile. "My metabolism burns through calories four times faster than the average person. Can't have painkillers, don't work on me."

"That's not a bad thing," she said, "you could develop a palette for liquor. Only drink the good stuff, be a total snob about it."

"That's not me," he said, a blush coming to his cheeks as he finished his burger. The news was talking about the weather for the next few days. "I think I'll just go to my studio and try to start a painting or just read until I go to bed."

"Okay," she said, getting up. "I'll leave the food with you." She smiled, tucking some hair behind her ear. "If you ever want, I can arrange for Aunt Peggy to come and visit you. The doctors say that getting her out and about will help her." Sharon looked away. The silence fell between them, broken only by the nattering of the news anchors on tv. He wiped his fingers on the napkin.

"Is it getting worse?" he asked, his voice soft. Sharon nodded. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing they can do. It'll just get worse and worse until…" she bit her lip and gave a nod. "But she's still active right now, more good days than bad, so if you want..." She left the offer open. "I'll see you, Steve," she said and headed to the door. "Oh right, I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?" he asked, standing up to put the rest of the burgers in the fridge along with the dip. "I'm sleeping alright if that's what you're wondering." Sharon shook her head. He arched a brow.

"Aunt Peggy has your personal effects in storage."

"My personal effects?" he frowned. "You mean she… she kept my things?" his eyes widened. Sharon nodded. "Why?"

"Well… she was your… the closest thing you had to family. So, she has your sketchbooks, your uniforms, the flag and Medal of Honor, your dog tags. Even the things you had from Barnes after he died." Sharon wrung her hands. "I can get it out of storage for you if you want. Since I'm her niece."

He didn't say anything, busying himself with putting the food away, the glasses in the dishwasher and turning off the tv. "Did… did she manage to save my momma's bible?"

"I don't know," she said, "probably. She went to your house after the war and collected your things."

"I'd like that," he said. "Good night, Sharon."

"Okay," she said, her voice soft, "good night, Steve." She let herself out, the door closing with a soft click. He went over and locked the door, then went to his bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he looked over the pictures he had on his nightstand: Peggy, Howard and Bucky in a three-way frame, the Howling Commandos in another. And a new addition, one he picked up that morning from a messenger: a group photo of the Avengers. Thor with his hammer, Clint with his arms around Thor and Bruce, Bruce in the middle, then him and finally Tony. It was taken before Thor left to bring his brother and the Tesseract back to Asgard. The May sunshine bright and illuminating a hopeful future for _Earth's Mightiest Heroes_ as the New York Times had dubbed them. They were smiling and for a moment he felt like he had a new band of brothers, people he could count on to watch his back. He sighed, reaching out and lowering the picture to the nightstand; the frame made a soft _tak_. He picked up the compass and flipped it open to stare at the picture of Peggy. Tears burned in his eyes as he thought about the life he had, the familiar world he left behind — all he lost. He fell asleep clutching the compass and dreaming of the future denied him and refusing the future in front of him.

* * *

It was warm for morning. Cars honked behind him and people grumbled as they passed him. He had his hands cupped around his eyes as he peered into the dark studio. Natasha said his lesson was today at ten — she also mentioned she had a new potential job as Pepper's assistant — he wouldn't know if times changed because he broke his phone. The door opened, and her assistant came out. Steve frowned, not liking the look the rat faced man gave him. "Hello," he said, holding out his hand. The man glared at him until he awkwardly with drew it. "Uh… is Natasha in?"

"No," he said, "she isn't here. Got new job" — he pointed to the direction of Avengers tower — "work there now. Lessons in evening. Come back then." The man slipped back in and locked the studio door before going into the back.

"Uh… thank you?" Steve said, glaring at the door and wondering what his problem was before he turned around and flagged a cab down. He got in. "Avengers Tower," he said. The cabbie nodded and drove off.

Steve sighed, watching as the buildings changed as the cab putted along up towards the tower. Sun glinting off glass and steel, an air plane droned overhead, leaving a trail of white vapor in the blue sky. Busses stopped to pick up people on the street corners and others raced out to get into cabs or leave them. The cabbies shouting at each other in their various languages. The pulse of the city. So different from when he was a boy, yet the same. He looked down at the compass in his hand. He didn't know why he took it when he got ready for the day, but he had slipped it into his pocket before leaving his room. Sighing, he shifted in the hot smelling leather back seat of the cab. There were stains on the floor and a few on the ceiling; he didn't want to know how they got there. The cabbie honked the horn and yelled at the jaywalker in Swahili.

By the time they got to Avengers Tower — and he paid the cabbie the outrageous sum — he figured he'd had made better time if he had just run from Natasha's dance studio in Brooklyn to the Avengers Tower in Manhattan. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went into the air-conditioned building and into the glass elevator. "Good morning, Captain Rogers," JARVIS greeted him. "What floor?"

"Whatever one Tony's on. I need a new phone," he said, leaning against the failing and watching as employees walked around holding vanilla folders. The elevator began to ascend, the mechanisms humming softly as it rose.

"Mr. Stark is going to be peeved that you broke another phone, Captain," JARVIS said. Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. His bangs flopped back into his eyes; even the annoyed puff of air at them did nothing to dislodge them. "May I suggest a haircut, Captain?"

"I should get one, huh?" He pushed his bangs to the side. The AI didn't reply. The elevator rose, and he could see the city from this height. Everyone looked like ants, going about their day busily. There was a certain thrill, seeing the world from this height — one almost felt like God, and if you just reached out you could move the world to your whim. A pigeon flew passed and he could see people on the roofs of the smaller skyscrapers, the blinking lights of the radio towers. The elevator dinged.

"Mr. Stark is down the hall, on your left," JARVIS said, as he got out.

"Thanks." He stepped out into the hall and heard the whirl of power tools and the scent of sawdust and burnt metal. Frowning, he followed JARVIS's instructions and found Tony in an abandon room, the rest of the hallway covered in a thick sheet of plastic, the workmen behind it hazy gray silhouettes of themselves. "Tony?" he asked, knocking on the door frame. The boxes were labeled in Colonel Philips' secretary's familiar neat hand: _Stark __—__ Rogers' Effects. _"Tony?" he called again.

"Yep?" Tony looked up, his arms up to the elbows of whatever was in the box. The construction on the other end of the hall started up again, the saw and grinder screeching. He covered his ears as Tony winced. "What brings you here?" Tony shouted.

"What?"

"I asked what brings you here?" Tony repeated. The sounds of the machinery died, and Tony grabbed a few things from the box and walked over to him. "C'mon, let's go somewhere less noisy." Tony lead him back to the elevator and told JARVIS to take them two floors up. The elevator hummed, the sunlight glinting off the chrome fixtures of the car. "Sorry about that."

"What's going on?" Steve asked, noticing that Tony was wearing a faded Metallica shirt and ratty khaki shorts. For a man with money coming out of his ears, Tony seemed to favor an extremely causal look when he was in the privacy of his own home. "I thought repairs to the tower—"

"Exterior repairs were completed last week," Tony said, looking at the things in his hands. "Interior repairs started yesterday… maybe the day before. Anyway" — he held up what he was holding — "do you like any of this stuff?" he asked.

He frowned, inspecting the old items. Action figures and a metal lunchbox from the 40s. He picked up one of the action figures. "I remember when these came out. The kids would come running up to me, begging me to sign them. We'd air drop them into liberated regions, along with chocolate," he said, running his thumb over the faded face of his action figure. "I can't believe your dad kept them."

"Dad was sentimental at times," Tony said, "especially when it came to you." The elevator dinged, the doors opening to reveal a glass wall and beyond that one of Tony's labs. He followed Tony. "I'm going to put that in your suite."

"My suite?" he asked, stuffing the action figure into his pocket. Tony nodded. "I uh… have an apartment." The admission felt weak to his own ears.

"I know, but this will be your home away from home. If you ever get tired of slumming it in Brooklyn—"

"Your grandfather sold vegetables at a grocery store," Steve said, coming into the scintillating chrome and glass lab. Tony set down the other action figures and the lunchbox, tapping on a screen and swiping away the things he didn't want. "Howard spoke highly of his parents."

"I know," Tony said, bitterness in his voice, "he was fond of reminding me how Grandpa and Grandma sacrificed so much for him, so he could be a self-made millionaire by his mid-twenties."

Steve puffed his cheeks out. "Tony, I… I didn't mean to—"

"Of course, you didn't," Tony said, spinning around on his heel to face Steve. "And I'm not trying to knock your humble beginnings, I'm just saying that if you get tired of Brooklyn — you have a place here." Tony turned back to the screen, tapping it as he went through whatever it was he was working on. Steve pulled out his broken phone.

"I uh… did come here for more than just a visit," he said. Tony turned and groaned, rubbing his face. "Sorry."

"Again?" Tony whined. "Another phone? Steve, you really need to be more careful, I thought you were better at controlling your strength?" he took the ruined phone and tossed it onto the shiny chrome countertop. It spun a few times before stopping against a part of some sort.

"I am!" he protested. "It's just that, well… it was ringing, and I tried to answer it but I was touching too lightly and so I touched harder and I guess it was too much and well —" he gestured to the broken phone. "I'm sorry."

"Wait here, I'll get you another one and transfer your data," he said, heading into the back of the lab for another phone. "If you break this one I'm going to give you a brick."

"A brick?" he arched a brow. He didn't need a brick, he needed a phone. "Why do I want a brick?"

"An old fashion cell phone. Just does calls and does text messages. Nothing fancy. Bulky like a brick though," Tony said as he came back with a slick new phone, he was fitting it into a case. "Some people call them stupidphones, since the newer phones are called smartphones."

"Oh." He watched as Tony sat down and took his broken old phone, the new phone and a cable. "Can you salvage it?"

"Lucky for you, you just broke the screen and made it go black. The interior components are in tack." He brought one of the screens down and doubled tapped it to get the screen. The image of his old phone's home screen appeared along with a tiny symbol in the upper left-hand corner that looked like a dialogue bubble with two missed messages and a small phone icon indicating a voice mail. "Someone's been trying to get ahold of you" — Tony smirked — "your girlfriend?"

His ears turned pink at the suggestion. "I don't have a girlfriend Tony," he said, folding his arms over his chest as Tony made a noise, turned the new phone on and started the data transfer. "How long will this take?"

"Not long, you don't have anything on this thing, so it's not like I'm transferring pictures or music."

"You can put music on it?" he asked, eyes widening. Technology amazed him. Computers were barely a thing back in his day, and most of them were designated to codebreaking. Everyone had a camera, but you still had to get the film developed. Some of the officers had portal video cameras. Colored film was a rare luxury and most of it had to be hand painted onto the film. Now everything was colored and portable, on the go and on demand. There was no sense of patience or waiting for something to come out. It baffled him how technology boomed in the years he was frozen. The books he read credited the boom to the Cold War and the Space Race.

"Yeah," Tony said. "If you bring by some records, I can convert them into mp3s and put it on your phone or we can browse StarkMusic and select songs you like."

"I don't really know what I like these days," Steve said, "I just listen to a bit of everything really." He shrugged, looking around the fancy lab. He reached out to touch the screen.

"I would advise against that Captain Rogers," JARVIS said. Tony chuckled from behind him. Sighing he wandered around the lab, looking at everything in a sort of dazed awe. There was a soft chime and Tony unhooked the new phone from the old.

"Is it finished?" he asked. Tony nodded handing it to him.

"All brand spanking new," Tony said, "be careful with it. If you break this one I swear Rogers, I'm going to get you a brick. One of those cell phones from the early 90s may be better suited for you. They just do calls."

"I'll be careful with it, Tony," he slipped it into his pocket. "Don't worry." He pulled out the action figure. "Can I keep it?" he asked.

Tony shrugged. "I don't mind," he said, "have a good day." He turned around and began to disassemble the broken phone. "Just remember what I said about breaking your phone."

"I'll be careful," he said and got into the elevator as he stuffed the action figure back into his pocket. Inside the elevator, he teased the phone from his pocket. "Gently," he said and swiped the screen up. He checked the voicemail first.

"_Hi, Steve. This is Natasha calling. Sorry, but I must cancel our dance lesson today. Got an interview with Pepper, probably take all day. See how I do. If you wanna do it today, call the studio and reschedule. Or you can just wait until I get off and I'll call you. Bye. Oh! The number for the studio is__—_" she gave the number to the studio and the message ended. He looked at the screen: a speaker button, a play button and a little trashcan. Tapping the trashcan icon, he looked at the two text messages; both from Natasha. The first one was from yesterday repeating the message and the second one was from this morning. Both just reminding him his lesson was canceled and providing the studio's number, so he could call and reschedule.

The elevator door opened, and he stepped out as he tapped out his message to Natasha. "Hey!" a woman shouted, and he felt himself collide with someone. There was a yelp, papers fluttering all around them. He fell backwards into the elevator, his phone skidding across the smooth glass floor.

Groaning, he rubbed his face. "Sorry," he said, "didn't see" — he paused, staring at Natasha — "you." Scrambling to his feet, he snatched up his phone (thank God it wasn't broken) and offered his hand to help Natasha to her feet. "Natasha, I—"

"Help me get these papers together. Pepper's gonna kill me," she said, crouching to gather up the papers. He did too, grabbing the ones nearest him. There was one paper left and he reached for it at the same time she did, their hands brushing. He flushed.

"Sorry," he said, retreating and letting her take the paper. "Here," he said and handed the stack of papers over to her. It struck him suddenly, how beautiful she was with her hair in cascading ringlets, her lips painted red and her eyes with a light smoky shadow that made her green eyes pop, a bit of blush on her cheeks. The blouse she wore was white and short sleeved, the first three buttons open to reveal her creamy chest and a bit of her cleavage. The charcoal pencil skirt ended just above her knees, teasing some toned thighs and showing off shapely calves (accented further by her sleek black heels). Artfully placed jewelry completed the outfit. Quickly, he lifted his gaze to her face and blushed when he saw that playful half smirk on her face. "Hi," he said, grimacing as his voice cracked. The smirk on her lips widened.

"Hey," she said. "What brings you here? Did you get my messages?" she asked walking off to the side. He followed her, so he wouldn't block the elevator.

"Uh… just now. My phone broke, so…" he gestured to the walls of the building. "Came here to get Tony to fix it." He shoved it into his pocket. "You're uh… I didn't expect you to be uh… well you're a beautiful dame — _woman_. Beautiful woman — shit — I mean, you're a woman _and_ beautiful." He dragged his hands down his face.

"That was painful," she said, biting her lip to keep from laughing. He groaned in response and wished they had just left him in the ice for a few more years so he could be spared this embarrassment. "It's not like you haven't seen me dress up before."

"The gallery opening was different," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. "We were both well dressed, and I would rather die than let Tony tease me." She smiled. "So, uh… do you want to do the lesson tonight? Or we can do it tomorrow." He folded his arms across his chest, bicep straining against the fabric of his shirt.

"Tomorrow might be better," she said, rearranging the papers back into their proper order. "Pepper is having me do a trial run today to see if I'm a good fit, so I really have to make a good impression on her and I don't know how long she wants to keep me."

"That's fair." He nodded and opened his mouth to tell her how much fun he had yesterday but closed it. "I should let you get back to work," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nice… nice seeing you."

She smiled. "It's nice seeing you too Steve," she said, turning and walking down the hall to Pepper's office. It was nigh impossible to look away from the perfect heart-shaped ass of hers. The pencil skirt framed in beautifully and his mouth went dry forcing him to swallow several times. Natasha glanced over her shoulder, a wide smirk on her lips and she winked. "Bye Steve," she said and rounded the corner, leaving him standing in the hall moonstruck.

"Son of a—" he muttered, running a hand through his hair and pressed the button for the elevator, several times in hopes that it would get here faster.

"You only need to press it once Captain," JARVIS chided. He glared at the stainless steel doors as they rumbled open and he hopped in, hitting the star button for the street level lobby. "Rough time?"

"Is that sarcasm or an actual inquiry?" he asked. If Tony had programmed his AI butler to be sarcastic he wouldn't have been surprised. The AI didn't respond for several moments.

"A mix of both," JARVIS finally said. Steve let out a bitter laugh as the elevator hummed its way down. Typical Tony. He closed his eyes and tried to get the image of Natasha in that outfit out of his head, the way the charcoal material hugged her ass. Damn, it was hard. She looked better than Peggy did in that red dress. A soft groaned escaped and he wondered if Sister Mary Ann would be upset with him for using his hand once he got into the shower.

"Lust is a sin," he told himself as he opened his eyes. The city was much closer now, the divine height the higher levels of the tower afforded gone now. Gone was the feeling of divinity and rushing back to him was the familiar and comforting feeling of mortality. The elevator dinged, and the doors rumbled open. People chattered, heels click-clacked on the marble floor and there was the pleasant ambient music coming from the speakers. Smiling, he wove his way to the door and stepped into the warm June morning. He took a deep breath, inhaling the humid air and the exhaust and the smell of hot asphalt. Looking around, he orientated himself and went to the nearest Catholic church.

* * *

Inside the church was cool and sacred. The sunlight illuminating the stain glass over the alter and he could feel the presence of God within this hallow walls. The younger priests were tending the candles at the altar, making sure things were clean and orderly. He snagged one and asked for a confession. He pointed to a dark wood confession booth and then went to fetch one of the higher-ranking priests. Steve looked at the alter and crossed himself quickly before going into the confession booth. A few moments later the priest came in. "What troubles you my son?" the old priest asked.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he said, folding his hands as if in prayer. The last time he went to confession was a few weeks before his mother died. The thought made his eyes well with tears; he blinked them away.

"What are your sins, my son?"

"The sin of lust," he said, letting out a long shuttering sigh. "I lust for a woman that is not my wife yet. She is beautiful and intelligent and she… causes stirrings within me. I don't know what to do."

"And have you been uncouth towards this woman?" the priest asked.

"No." He shook his head. "No, I have not. We are friends… she teaches me how to dance at her studio." The lump in his throat felt painful as he swallowed it down. "What shall I do? I want to be with her, but I'm afraid she doesn't want to be with me or if she does she's afraid to."

"I see," the priest said. "Well my son, things have changed in recent years. I think if you still lust for this woman you should — allow yourself the physical satisfaction of release."

"You mean" — Steve was thankful there was a screen between him and the priest, so he couldn't see his blush — "use my hand?"

"That's exactly what I mean. God will not frown upon it. He'll understand that you have desires for this woman and the only way to not commit a greater sin is for you to pleasure yourself." The priest cleared his throat. "And if you do wish to copulate with this woman, God advises you to use protection."

"My hand won't fall off?"

The priest laughed, disguising it as an abrupt cough. "Who told you that nonsense?"

"Sister Mary Ann," he said. The priest grunted. "How shall I repent?"

The priest was silent for a few moments. "Say twelve hail Mary's before bed and pleasure yourself."

"Just… twelve?" he asked, confused. The priest last time gave him twenty-five Hail Mary's for three days. "For one day."

"Understand my son, that the Church has grown broader in its understanding of lustful desires. God understands that you mean no harm towards this woman and encourages you to pleasure yourself. God frowns upon rape and murder — of course — and the harming of children. So long as you do not commit those sins, your feelings for this woman you speak of are normal."

It was weird, Steve felt, but if the priest said God will not damn him then he supposed God would be fine with it. And his hand wouldn't fall off. "Thank you, Father."

"I absolve you of your sins, my son," the priest said and made the image of the cross to seal the pack. "Have a good day," the priest added.

"You too, Father," he said and left the confessional booth. He looked at the altar, crossed himself and went home to make a much-needed shower.

* * *

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	7. VII

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

Pepper's office was spacious and modern chic: stainless steel desk with a faux wood top, leather swivel chair, floor to ceiling windows to give her a view of the city, one of those abstract physic spinning things to help her relax, a piece of modern art in one corner of Iron Man. Pepper was sitting at her desk, talking to some investor on the phone. Papers strewn across her desk, numbers and figures for Stark Industries stock. Natasha leaned over, eyeing the figures and memorizing them, trying to find any intelligence that would benefit the Red Room — not that the stock numbers wouldn't interest them, but they rather have the blue prints to the latest Iron Man armour or Stark technology the company was about to release. Ever since Tony Stark had ditched weapons manufacturing the world has scrambled to get their hands on the latest scrap of information about the latest technology coming from the company and how they could weaponize it. If she was able to get her hands on the plans for a miniature arch reactor — she was pretty sure the Red Room would forgive her in her delay of killing Captain America.

With a sigh, Pepper hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk and rubbed her temples. "Chinese," she said, smiling up at her, "dealing with them is a pain in the ass because they have to funnel everything through their government and that could take weeks or months or years."

"That sounds like a headache," she said with a smile, shuffling the papers to make sure they were in order before handing them over. It amazed her that Pepper ran the entire company and hadn't managed to pull all her hair out — maybe she had, and her brilliant copper locks are just a wig. "Shall I get you some coffee?"

"I need an energy drink and a revolver to shoot myself in the foot," Pepper said with a laugh, leaning back in her chair and sighing. The view was amazing. The sunlight glinted off the tall buildings, the sky was a clear blue of the coming summer and from this height a person could see almost the entire city. "Tony knows how to pick them," she said, looking out the windows at the bird's eye perspective of the city. Natasha walked around the desk and looked down too. The people on the ground looked like ants, the bright yellow taxis dotted among the other cars of the city, sluggishly moving towards their destination. Every now and then a person would dart out into the traffic weaving and wending their way to the other side. "He knows I like watching the city. Helps me relax" — she gestured to the piece of spinning modern abstract sculpting on her desk — "more than that thing anyway."

She smiled, looking at the spinning thing on her desk. "It's certainly interesting." The door creaked open and Tony strolled in. "Mr. Stark," she greeted.

"Tony," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Pep, did you know your new assistant was a model?" Tony tapped something on th tablet in his hand before handing it over to Pepper. "I was just looking through the background check on her — you're good by the way," he told Natasha. "And I notice she had several modeling gigs — with pictures available."

"Yes, I know," Pepper said, handing him back the tablet, "and she'll be a very expensive sexual harassment suit, so" — she gave Tony a warning smile — "don't do anything."

"Hey" — Tony put his hand over the glowing circle in the center of his chest — "I'm perfectly capable of keeping it in my pants. It's Stevie I'm worried about."

"Why would you be worried about Steve?" Pepper asked, arching a brow. Natasha stepped towards the window, watching the people walk pass the tower. She knew Steve found her attractive — if the way he stared at her ass was any indication — but she never got the impression Steve would act upon his feelings in a way that would make her uncomfortable. He hadn't even contacted her about setting up another friend date. It hurt a little and made her wonder if she was reading too much into their situation. It was tempting to call him up and arrange another one; he was fun to hang out with and she got the impression he liked her — probably more than as a friend. For some reason the thought caused her to smile.

"Because he was ogling your assistant's ass," Tony said, wagging his eyebrows. "Do you think he'll like knowing she was a model. I mean, she's probably the prettiest girl he's seen since he stopped being a Capsicle." Putting action to his words, he pulled out his phone and within a few short moments he smirked and slipped the device back into his pocket. "Done."

"Tony."

"What? I'm just saying" — Tony placed one butt cheek on the corner of Pepper's desk — "if I was a ninety-four-year-old geezer in a twenty-something body I'd want to see how well that body road tested." He gave a smirk. "It's completely harmless."

"Tony, he's your friend," Pepper said, rubbing her temples. "I thought you cared about him."

"I do!" Tony protested. "Besides, I think he needs to get out more. Stop acting like an old man and dressing like one too. Have you seen how dresses himself? Some weird combination of skinny shit and grandpa. I swear none of his clothes fit him right." He grabbed a piece of paper and crumbled it up, tossing it into the air and catching it. "He needs a wardrobe overhaul and a new look. I'm thinking military but chic" — he fluttered his fingers in front of his forehead — "his bangs are always in his eyes."

"And you want my permission to go and take Steve shopping?" Pepper asked. Tony laughed, hopping off his perch on her desk and scooping up his tablet.

"Nope," he said, tossing his paper ball again. "I was thinking your lovely assistant could do that. Unless you need her to demonstrate her skills at using the Xerox again."

"What do you think Natasha?" Pepper asked, drawing Natasha's attention away from the cityscape. "Would you care to spend the rest of the day taking Steve shopping?"

"And get him a haircut," Tony interjected. Pepper chuckled.

"Well," Natasha said, thinking this over, "I don't know how taking Captain Rogers shopping will assist you — I'm supposed to be demonstrating my skills. You did say this way a trial by fire interview."

Pepper hummed, tapping her pen on the table. "I want you to take Steve shopping. Help him adjust to the modern world. He needs a friend."

"Tony is his friend."

"I'm busy," Tony said, scooping up his tablet again and heading to the door. He tossed the paper ball into the wastebasket. "I'll be in the lab, have JARVIS ring me if you need me." With that he left, whistling some Black Sabbath song. Pepper smiled, shaking her head in a bemused manner.

"I'm asking you to do this," she said and pulled out shiny black credit card with the Stark Industries logo, "as your new boss."

Natasha's eyes grew wide as she accepted the company credit card. She got the job and all she had to do was take Steve shopping and get him a haircut. "O-Of course," she said, tapping a nail on the plastic. "Thank you, Ms. Potts," she said, breathless, a smile widening on her face.

"Pepper, please," she said, "and have fun" — she scribbled Steve's address on a sticky note — "Steve's a nice guy." She handed it to her.

She nodded as she took the sticky note, licking her lips. "I will, thank you again," she said and left the office to head to Steve's apartment.

* * *

The last time she was at here, she had snuck in through the window to bug his apartment. This time, she was coming as a guest — friend — she frowned, unsure what she was in relation to Steve. She had made a brief stop at her own place to change into something causal: jean booty shorts and comfy flats with a plain stale blue t-shirt. She knocked on the door. "Steve?" she called, knocking again. It took a few moments before she heard his muffle voice and a few more before the door opened. "Bozhe moy," she whispered, eyes widening at the sight before her.

Steve was standing in front of her in nothing but a towel. Rivulets of water trickling down over the mountains and valleys of his six pack abs only to get caught in the fine dusting of blond hair peeking out from the top of the towel; over the rise and fall of his collarbone and well define pecs. His biceps looked larger without being imprisoned in cloth. "Yeah?" he asked, using a hand towel to dry his face and push up his wet hair.

"Hi, Steve," she said. She had seen him naked before thanks to the cameras, but she had never imagined she'll see him naked in person. Steve lowered the hand towel from his face, his blue eyes widening, and he blushed. A smirk spread across her lips as she finally solved the mystery of how far his blush went down — it seeped from his head to his neck, spreading across his chest and shoulders and ended somewhere just below his ribs.

"Holy—" he closed the door to a crack, peeking into the space between the door frame and the door. "Natasha! I uh… erm… hi!" he said, his voice overly loud and unusually high. "What… what are you… I mean… why are you here?" he asked.

"Get dressed, I'm going to take you shopping and get a haircut."

"What's wrong with my hair?" he asked, brushing his wet bangs out of his eyes. "And I thought you were working?"

"Pepper ordered me because Tony said you dress like you're torn between skinny shit and grandpa." She grinned at his flustered expression. "Not my words, his," she added. Steve sighed.

"Come in," he said, opening the door wider for her to slip in. "Take a seat, I'll be out in minute."

She smiled, slipping into his apartment. He held onto the towel around his waist like it was a life line. The little hand towel he pressed to his chest — like a bashful Victorian woman caught without her corset — not that it did anything to hide his chest — at best it hid his nipples. "You sure you don't need help getting dress? I mean you are an old man."

"Hardy-har-har." He rolled his eyes as he padded to his bed room. She took a seat on the couch, hoping Dmitri wasn't watching her. "I'm capable of dressing myself."

"Not well, according to Tony," she quipped. His shoulders hunched, and she licked her lips as the muscles in his back rippled. "I'm here to help after all."

"I'm ninety-four, I'm can dress myself, thanks." The door closed with a soft click. She looked around his apartment. It still felt the same — manufactured and bland — there was no touch to it that said Steve. Even the pictures didn't feel like him. On the coffee table sat his sketchbook, the top cover ajar. She could hear him whistling from his bedroom, a swing beat from a song probably from his day.

She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the door, surprised he was comfortable enough with her in his home — could she call this his home when it didn't feel like he lived here — that he could whistle while he got dressed. Wiggling a finger into the space where he stuck his pencil into the spine of his sketchbook, she flipped it open to see his latest drawings. Most were landscape images of New York, a few busts shots of Iron Man and men she assumed were the other Avengers. The last few pages had pictures of Eeyore watching as Pooh and Piglet and Tigger went off to play without him. They held smartphones and other devices of the 21st Century while Eeyore had a broken phone at his feet. She turned the page, feeling sorry for Steve.

"What're you doing?" he asked, a pair of socks in hand and a plaid button-down shirt over his arm. She looked up, closing the sketchbook.

"Just looking," she said, with a nonchalant shrug. He grunted, closing the gap between them and snatching up his sketchbook. A small square of paper fluttered out, landing on the floor by her feet; surreptitiously, she put her foot over it and drew it towards her. "You don't need the shirt," she said, "what you're wearing is fine." More than fine really, the poor white t-shirt was stretched across his broad chest and shoulders, defining his muscles in a ghostly fashion that enticed her erotic senses. Steve wrinkled his nose.

"I'm not going out in public in my undershirt," he said as he went back into his room to put his sketchbook away. "And it's rude to snoop through other people's things." The door close behind him and she reached under her foot to pull out the piece of paper. It was a picture. An old black and white picture of a woman with wavy hair and intelligent eyes. On the back was a date and place: _London 1944_. There was no name, but she seen the woman before on Steve's nightstand. "Where did you get that?" he had come out from his bedroom again, adjusting the leather belt around his waist. She stood up, holding the picture out to him. "What did I say about snooping through other people's things?" He took the picture and went back into his room. She followed him, leaning against the wall by his room.

"Who is she?" she asked, slipping her hands into the back pockets of her booty shorts. "She's pretty." She watched him slip the picture back into the sketchbook, but he didn't answer. When he came out, his shoulders were tense and there was a guarded expression in his blue eyes. It struck her as odd, he was usually so open with her but now he hoarded his secrets like a miser. For her part, she kept her expression relaxed, open and neutral, hoping that he'll trust her enough to tell her.

A knock on the door echoed through the apartment. "Steve?" a woman's muffled voice sounded at the front. "Steve, I got some things for you," she added. Natasha watched Steve head to the door; she followed behind him at a leisurely pace. The door open and Steve greeted the woman with good cheer. A few moments later, Natasha saw her, jaw tightening in annoyance. "Oh, hi," she said, waving. Natasha offered a smile. "Didn't know you had a guest, Steve." Natasha came over, standing next to Steve and stretched out her hand. "Natasha Rushman. I work for Stark Industries as Ms. Potts assistant," she said, "nice meet you." She smiled when Agent 13 took her hand.

"Oh, hi. I'm Sharon. A nurse. I live next to Steve," she said, tossing some blonde hair over her shoulder and giggling a little when she looked at Steve. Natasha furrowed her brow, wondering if there was something more between Steve and Sharon that she didn't realized. "She your girlfriend?" Sharon asked.

Steve almost dropped the box he was holding; Natasha couldn't help but smirk a little at his reaction. "No, no," he said, "Natasha's just a friend. She's going to take me shopping later. Get a haircut." He walked around the couch and set the box on the table. It was a ratty looking box, the edges weak and faded — as if it was about to fall apart at any moment. Steve's name was scrawled across the side along with the words: _Howling Commandos_. Curious, she walked over to the box, watching Steve out of the corner of her eye.

"That's good," Sharon said, "you should get out more. Maybe we can do something together, so you aren't becoming a hermit." She handed him the second box. "Careful the bottom is coming loose."

"Thanks" — he slipped his arms beneath the weak bottom and hefted it to his chest — "I got it." He went back to the table and set the box next to the first. She gave Steve a blithe smile as he went back to the door. "Is that it?" He asked, turning his back to her. Natasha could smell the must of age coming from the boxes and eased the flap of the second box open. On the top were black and white pictures of Steve during his USO days. He looked dorky in his get-up, with his brass shield and winged cowl. A few pictures on top had him surrounded by the beautiful showgirls. For a brief moment she wondered if he was a secret womanizer but hid it by the awkward bashful demeanor. Though from the looks of the pictures, she was confident in dismissing the idea. One picture had him sitting at a bar with Hitler.

"So many memes from one picture," she whispered as she pushed it aside, revealing a tattered looking bible and a worn rosary — the wooden beads worn polish smooth from years of handling. She glanced over her shoulder to look at Steve and Sharon.

"No. There's a lot more. But these are your old sketchbooks, photo albums, a shadow box, I think an old bible too. Can't remember. But they give this all to Aunt Peg cause, she was your 'best girl'." Sharon said, giving him a sad smile. "Closest thing you had to family, right?"

"Yeah." Steve ran a fingertip along the doorframe, pensive and guarded. "Thanks again, Sharon. Maybe later this week we can go down to the storage unit and I can see if there is anything else I want to keep."

Satisfied, Natasha pushed the pictures to the side and dug a nail beneath the bible and looked inside. Several names scrawled in faded black ink. One name stuck out to her: Joseph Brádach Rogers. Steve's father? She frowned, there was no way she could see more without taking the bible out of the box. She lowered the cover and peeked into the second box. She could see dusty old photo albums at the bottom, a shadow box with a Medal of Honor and Medal of Valor resting on a velvet back, a folded American flag in a glass and wood case with a brass plaque that read: _Captain Steven Grant Rogers, 1918 – 1945. Captain America._ Swallowing, she reached in and grabbed a small box next to the flag, opening it to reveal Steve's dog tags. A picture of him in his Captain America uniform nestled into the top of the box. It struck her like a truck that these were the items from his funeral — a funeral without a body. Closing the small box, she set it back among the others and pulled her hands free. Brushing her hands on her thighs, she trotted over to the door, keeping her face neutral so Steve and Sharon wouldn't figure out what she had been up to.

"Did she… keep" — his jaw tightened, and he swallowed; Natasha frown at the sudden sadness that came over him — "Sergeant Barnes' things?"

"No, that went to his family. Most are dead, but there is one left. A sister."

"Becca" — a melancholic smile flashed across his face — "do you think —"

"I'll see what I can do, Steve," she said. "Anyway, I'm free Saturday, so if you want…"

"Saturday is good. Thanks again for bringing this stuff by Sharon" — he grabbed his wallet and shoved it into his pocket before looking over at her — "but Natasha and I need to get going."

"Yeah," she agreed, "I'm sure Ms. Potts wants me back before close of business to inform her that I did get you close." She smiled, rubbing her hand along his bicep. Steve had an awkward flush in his cheeks.

"No problem," Sharon said. "I'll see you around." She took a few steps to her door and entered her apartment. Natasha arched a brow at Steve and then looked back at the boxes — where his family's bible and items from his bodiless funeral were tucked away — but he was already out the door and standing in the hall with his keys in his hand.

She shrugged, stepping over the threshold into the hall. "That your neighbor?" she asked, as he locked the door. He nodded. "She seems nice." Again, he nodded. "Have you thought of going out with her?"

"No." He straightened, shoving his keys into his pocket. They walked abreast down the hall. There were a few kids playing with action figures in the corner at the far end. The walls smelled of wood stain and something sticky-sour. Some doors had welcome mats in front of them and she was a bit surprised nobody stole them (then again, who'd steal a welcome mat).

"Why not?" she asked as he headed down the creaky stairs, ignoring the serviceable elevator. She followed, keeping easy pace with his strides. "You two make a cute couple."

"Because I just don't," he said, terse. She wrinkled her nose and hopped the corner, landing in front of him. He grunted as he came up short; the wood of the rail cracked as he gripped it to keep his balance.

"What's your problem? You seemed to have been in a good mood when I came, now you're acting like a jerk."

"It's none of your business," he said, eyes narrowing. "Let's just get this shopping trip over with."

"No." She stood her ground. It took her a few moments to pinpoint his soft spots, how best to use his advantage of height and reach and the high ground to defeat him. "What's wrong, Steve?" He didn't answer, and she sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Look, I'm sorry I peeked at your sketchbook and looked at that picture." She offered him a friendly smile. "If we're going to be friends, I think we should be honest with each other."

"Honest, huh?" he asked. She nodded. "Well, I honestly don't want to talk about it. It's private." He looked down his nose as he towered over her. "And besides, you've been so _honest_ with me?" he sneered the question before he pushed passed her and headed down the stairs. She stood there, staring at his back as he rounded the next corner. "Are you coming or not?" he called. She frowned, trotting down the steps until she reached him in the lobby.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, grabbing his elbow and turning him around. "I've been honest to you." A few of the other tenants were watching them, but she didn't care. She wasn't going to have him be an ass to her for the rest of the day, so, they'll get to the bottom of this. Steve — on the other hand — didn't like the attention on them and grabbed her by her bicep; his grip was tight, sure to leave a bruise tomorrow. He hauled her into the broom closet at the far end of the lobby. A quick tug to the string of the sole naked lightbulb illuminated the cramped closet — barely big enough for them, with the brooms and mops and the yellow mop bucket, the shelves of cleaners and toilet paper.

"Who are you really?" Steve asked, using his height and strength to intimidate her in the small closet. If it weren't for the years of training, she would have been afraid — she was smaller, weaker than him, in a tight cramped space that utilized his advantage in height and strength against her. If she was anyone else she would have screamed for help, but she was Black Widow and men feared her. They were close enough that she could have sworn he heard the rapid tattoo of her heart against her ribs. Swallowing, she met his angry glower with one of her own.

"I am who I am," she said, "what does it matter?"

A quick step from him had her backed into the shelves. The hard edges digging into her back. "I'm not going to ask again!"

She frowned, studying his face as she tried to piece the puzzle together before he gave her the answer. "Your dance teacher and Pepper's assistant. What's this about Rogers?" she asked.

"What did you tell Pepper?" he asked, eyes narrowing. There was something erotic about him being angry at her.

"Tony told you," she accused, "why?" He shoved her further into the wall, a bent nail jabbing itself into her spine.

"What's the truth, you owe me that much at least," he said. Damn, he was hot when he was angry; she licked her lips, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. But the truth would destroy him and her mission.

"I did live in Seattle, with a cat." She straightened. "But yes, if you must know I'm originally from Alaska. I was a successful model but when you have a shady uncle who wants to get in with the mob" — she pulled up her shirt, revealing a thick puckered scar on her belly near her hip — "Soviet slug, no rifling" — she lowered her shirt — "bye-bye bikinis." A smirk tugged at her lips.

The perfect lies always had grains of truth to them. She'll never forget seeing the Winter Soldier in Odessa, the salty tang of the Black Sea on the wind, buffeting his hair and hers as she pushed her charge further towards their destination. The relentlessness in which the man with the metal arm pursued them, his cold calculating eyes hidden behind black goggles. The sound the gun made, the pain in her lower side as he took his shot — she being in his way be damned — how she tried to plead with him, reason with him that they were both operatives for Russia. Nothing she did seemed to reach him as he fired another shot — the nuclear physicist's head exploding in a shower of blood, bone and brain matter. When she recovered, her higher ups in the Red Room had mysteriously become mute on the entire subject of the Winter Soldier or why they even sent her to rescue the Iranian if he was just doomed to die anyway.

"Yeah, bet you look terrible in them now," Steve said, staring at her as if he was waiting for her to explain further. She didn't.

"Now, I run my dance studio and work for Pepper" — she pushed against his chest and he took a few steps back to give her space — "now you know." She folded her arms over her chest. "I'd appreciate it if you tell Tony I don't like people blabbing about my past. We all have secrets, Steve." She offered him a smile. "I'll let you keep yours." For now.

"Alright," he said, the tensions leaving his shoulders. "Let's go shopping, get this over with." He let out a big sigh. "And I don't want my clothes smelling like toilet bowl cleaner." A smile tweaked his lips, the tension between them easing. The door handle jiggled, the janitor was trying to get in, and they had a few seconds before they were caught in an awkward situation.

"Kiss me," she said, quickly, looking up at him. A flummoxed expression appeared on his face. She heard someone — the janitor — shove keys into the keyhole.

"What?"

"Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable." It was frustrating having to explain this to him. Did he have no idea what people did in broom closets?

"Yes, they do," he said, in a confused yet frank tone. Taking a breath, she did a little hop and grabbed his face with one hand and kissed him; her other hand, deftly undoing his belt and tugging his shirt free. To her surprise he returned the kiss, his hand falling to her waist — pulling her closer to him, while his other braced them against the wall. The door opened. She pulled away, giving a nervous laugh as the face of the shocked janitor greeted them. "Oh, sorry," she said, slipping passed Steve (who fumbled with his pants) and into the hall. "My boyfriend here" — she gave a girlish giggle — "just can't seem to keep his hands off me" — she grabbed Steve's hand and tugged him, stumbling along — "c'mon honey, let's get going. Don't want to scar the poor man further." Giving another girlish giggle to seal the deal, she led Steve through the lobby and out of the building. "Still uncomfortable?" she asked as they walked down the street.

"Not exactly the word I'd use," he grumbled as he readjusted his pants. She smirked savoring the knowledge that his lips were soft.

* * *

**I got a job, so here's a new chapter for you. There will be a brief pause as I figure out my schedule and how to work my writing into it. Cause, yeah. I got a job. It's nights so things will be screwy for a little bit. See you guys in chapter 8**

**Save an author; leave a review. **


	8. VIII

**MCU (c) Marvel**

* * *

Malls were overwhelming, he decided. The size, the brightness, the echoing voices and the plethora of stores. Back in his day (he hated that phrase, it made him sound old), such lavish displays of luxury were unheard of; now it was normal. The twenty-first century had an overabundance of food and money. Sure, he read about the crash in the 70s and the Recession in the late 2000s, but nothing compared to the sparse nature of the Great Depression. The grim bleakness of a populace looking for work and finding none, wanting food and finding their pantries empty. The grudging, hoarding nature and mistrust of banks was something beaten into him since before he could walk. He was sure Tony would laugh if he had a chance to look through his books — he hidden a few hundred in the pages of Hemmingway and Tolkien. He read how the war saved the country from total economic collapse. He supposed war created a demand for supplies, that demand created jobs, which created money. Still, such avarice on display bothered him. "You okay?" Natasha asked, knocking on the faux wood door of the men's changing room. "Didn't slip a disc now did you?" They were in the Men's department at Macy's, in a mall, in Manhattan — the name he didn't bother to look up.

"Are you sure these jeans are meant to be this tight?" he asked, yanking up the pair of dark blue skinny jeans she bought for him. Natasha had insisted he wear at least one outfit. So, she herded him into the men's department at Macy's, flashed the recite to the oblivious teenager at the desk, and then shoved him into an empty changing room with the jeans, t-shirt and shoes.

It was an interesting experience — shopping. Mind blowing would be a better term. American Eagle — Natasha had insisted, grinning as if she knew a joke he wasn't privy to — had more jeans than he knew existed, in patterns and colors and styles than he thought possible (who _wore_ ripped jeans or jeans that were distressed by lions and tigers? Why would anyone want to acid-washed jeans)? It took a while for her to find the right size for him — the retail girl was of little help, as she kept ogling him much to Natasha chagrin — and once she did, had him try on every style in the store for her to inspect. He almost had a heart attack at the end total for six pairs of jeans. A whimper had escaped him when Natasha handed over the credit card to the clerk — three hundred dollars for clothes.

It didn't end there. The next store they went to was less expensive, but the amount of clothes Natasha bought, and the end total made him weak in the knees at the thought of spending — throwing away, that was a better analogy — so much money on clothes and shoes. They went to Saks, and he almost tugged his hair out when he saw that the price for a simple button-down shirt was a hundred-and-fifty dollars; his heart jumping into his throat when Natasha selected all the blue ones in his size and made him try them on — along with several pairs of slacks in various colors and a pair of dark brown loafers. The clerk at the store looked at him as he attempted to eat his fist — over a thousand dollars for everything — when Natasha paid for their items.

Now he was in a charging room in a Macy's, shimming his butt into a pair of skinny jeans. The rest of their purchased had been sent home with one of the Stark employees — he had begrudgingly handed over his spare key to his apartmen. The jeans hugged his legs and ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. Snapping the button into place and yanking up the zipper he came out for her to inspect. "I feel ridiculous," he said, tugging at the jeans. "They're tight."

"They're supposed to be," she said, drawing a circle in the air. Sighing, he turned around, staring at the ceiling, stopping only when she put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, once you wear them for a few days, you'll break them in," she said and gave him a gentle push on his shoulder and he finished turning around.

"I mean, NASA?" he plucked at the grey t-shirt that supported a blue globe and the words NASA written across in red.

"What's wrong with NASA?" she asked, handing him a blue jacket. "Put this on" — and army brown cargo jacket — "and this."

"It's the middle of June," he said, putting the lighter blue jacket on and then the heavier cargo jacket. "I'm going to be sweating bullets." Not to mention I already have a terrible wedgey thanks to these pants. He put on the two jackets.

"Ever heard of layers?" She drew a circle in the air; with a huff, he turned around again — slowly, pausing for a few seconds with his back to her. "You look good," she said. "How do the shoes feel?" She yanked the tags off the clothes he had on and placed them in the bag. "Bounce a little."

"You know" — he bounced on his feet — "this is how I felt when I was in the army getting fitted for my uniforms."

"Before or after?" she asked. "Stop."

"Both." He wiggled his toes. "Eh, they feel like new shoes. They'll probably fall off if I run in them."

"Good thing we're not running," she said, reaching up to yank the jackets off him. He let her, sighing in relief at the removal of the extra layers. He still felt underdressed wearing just a t-shirt. All the store had was a large — which almost wasn't big enough for him — and it was fitting enough to show off his pecs and bulging biceps. Natasha caught him tugging at the shirt. "It's cotton, it'll stretch out." She grabbed the plastic bag with old his clothes and jackets inside.

"I had perfectly good clothes — that _fit_," he protested as they left the changing room. Natasha gave the oblivious girl a blithe smile and lead him out of Macy's and into the brightly light mall. Voices echoed off the plaster walls, lights glinted off the polished chrome railing and shiny tiles of the floor. It took him a few moments to adjust to the light and sound — the swell of humanity: teenagers with their friends, families with their grade-school children, college students, people on dates, elderly couples. The population had exploded after WWII and it didn't seem to be halting anytime soon.

"It's almost two? You hungry?" Natasha asked, glancing at her watch. A gentle touch on his arm made him jerk back into reality. "You okay?" she asked. "We can find a restaurant if you want. Some place quiet."

"No, no," he said, shaking his head and brushing his bangs to the side. "We can eat here. I don't mind."

"We'll swing by the health and fitness store to pick up some protein bars before we head over to the barber shop."

"They still have those?" he asked, following her into the crowd. She gave him a quick bob of her head, falling into lockstep with the random strangers around her. He followed her at a slower pace, marveling in baffled awe at the mall — the sunny blue sky peering through the skylight in the high vaulted ceiling, there was a selection of chart-topping songs barely audible beneath the babble of the crowds, stores with lights and shiny things in their windows to lure in customers. It was overwhelming, he felt his chest tightening and his breathing increase, Natasha was there a few feet in front of him in the crowd. Swallowing he reached for her hand, grabbing her fingers, sighing at the feel of her soft skin against his.

"You okay?" she asked, tugging him off to the side. He ran a hand through his hair and nodded. "You look a bit pale."

"Just… hungry," he said. It was an easy excuse. Less embarrassing to admit that than to tell her the crowds bothered him — too many people, too much light, too much noise. She gave him a smile and lead him to the food court and a small table in a relatively quiet section.

"I'll get us some Panda Express," she said, leaving the bag containing his clothes with him and went over to the Panda Express station. He sat there, staring at his hands and focusing on his breathing. It was a drawback of being a super soldier: he felt more, heard more, tasted more, smelled more. If he wasn't prepared the overstimulation could overwhelm him or trigger memories from the war, he rather forget. A loud buzzing caused him to jump, fumbling for his pocket and he pulled out his phone. Tony's picture was on the screen with a red hung up phone icon and a green answered phone icon.

"Gently," he said, pressing the pad of his finger against the screen until it registered and swiped the green button across the screen. "Hello?"

"Hey, how's the shopping?" Tony asked. Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair — they still needed to get it cut — and looked over at Natasha who was in line at Panda Express. "Steve?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I — uh, it's okay," he said, hoping his answer didn't sound weak. A group of girls spotted him across the way, one pointing him out and pulling out her phone to take a picture, her friends gasping and doing the same. Smiling awkwardly, he gave them a little wave and the first girl came up to him.

"Hi," she said, all breathless and starry-eyed — like some of the young women at his signing events when he sold war bonds.

"Hold on Tony," he said, setting the phone face down on the table. "Hi." He gave the girl a nice smile, nodding to her friends. "What's up?"

"Are you… are you really him?" she asked, trying not to burst into squeals of delight as she kept glancing back at her friends. "Captain America?" she looked back at her friends, giggling. He swallowed, glancing over at Natasha and hoping she would come back soon.

"Well, I uh… why would you think that?" he asked, taking his phone and hanging up on Tony. If he told her who he was, and she drew the attention of the entire mall. He found Natasha coming towards them with two large white Styrofoam containers and two bottles of water in the crook of her elbow.

"Honey," Natasha said in an overly sweet voice. "Are you being sweet and telling these girls silly stories?" she asked, setting the food down. The girls huddled together, clutching their phones and looking like spooked chickens with nowhere to go. Natasha sat down and gave the girls a blithe smile. The first girl said something to her friends and they scuttled to the other side of the food court. He looked at his phone and saw that he had several angry texts from Tony — he'll deal with that later and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Natasha popped open her container of Chinese food. "So, what were those girls crowding you for?" she asked, breaking her chopsticks apart.

He opened his container. A pile of greasy lo mien greeted him, along with sweet and sour pork, a beef dish and another dish he didn't recognize but he figured it was chicken. Sighing, he picked out the carrots with his fingers. "They uh… thought I looked like a celebrity, I guess." He dropped a carrot on the lid, it made a dull thud against the Styrofoam.

"You have something against carrots?" Natasha asked around a bite.

"Hate 'em," he said, pushing his food around to make sure he picked out all the carrots. She frowned and plucked his discarded carrots out of the lid. He arched a brow, and she mirrored the expression as if she was challenging him. "Fine." He looked around for a fork. "So, uh… where's the fork?"

"You don't eat Chinese food — even greasy fast food style Chinese food — with a fork," she said and handed him a pair of chopsticks. He stared at the fused together pieces of wood. "Wait" — she took them and pulled them apart for him — "don't want you breaking them."

"Or you could've just gotten me a fork next time," he said, ignoring the glare she sent his way. He stared at the two twig-like pieces of wood in his hand. "What do I do?" he asked, nudging her foot with his. She arched a brow. "I don't know what to do."

"You never used chopsticks?" she asked.

"Well, when you grow up dirt poor during the Great Depression, exploring new cultures through their cuisine gets shifted to the bottom of your priorities list," he said, giving her a little smirk. She gave an amused snort and set her chopsticks down.

"Right or left?"

"Huh?"

"Dominate hand: right or left?" she asked, holding out her hand.

"Oh, right," he said as he handed over the chopsticks and gave her his right hand. Smiling, she placed one twig in his hand.

"You cradle the bottom chopstick in the crook of your thumb, and holding the top chopstick" — she gave him the top chopstick — "like a pencil, and you just move that to pinch food and pick it up" — she molded his fingers around the two sticks and guided his hand to pick up some food — "and now you just maintain pressure and eat."

It all seemed absurdly complex and it baffled him that entire cultures used little sticks to eat food when a fork and knife worked so much better. Still, he was a quick learner and picked up how to use chopsticks rather quickly — even if he dropped his food a few times. Of course, he often asked Natasha to show him how to hold the chopsticks again — even though he already knew how to use them by this point — just to feel her hands against his. Much to his surprised she obliged every time with a kind smile.

They ate in silence for most of the meal, Natasha finished first — she was more adapt in the usage of chopsticks — and stared at him while he ate for a while. "What?" he finally asked, swallowing a mouthful of noodles.

"You look like you want to say something but are unsure on how to phrase it," she said, leaning back in her chair, phone in hand, sipping at her water as she scrolled through whatever she was looking at. "So out with it."

Frowning, he swallowed and wiped his lips with his napkin. "I don't appreciate that you lied to me or that you snooped through my sketchbook —"

"You don't want me to look through your private things, don't leave them lying around."

"That's not the point," he said, twisting the cap off his own bottle of water and drinking half of it in a few swallows. "If you want our friendship to work, there has to be a level of trust between us." He grumbled as he manhandled his noodles. It didn't help that she was watching him struggle, a little half-smile quirking her mouth. "Stop looking so smug," he huffed and finally got a bite into his mouth.

"It's just funny," she said, scrolling through her phone. "Do you have Facebook?" He furrowed his brow. "I take that as a no. Remind me later to set you up with one. Maybe we can stop off at Best Buy and get you a laptop. So, you can get familiar with the technology."

"That would be nice." He swallowed. "But don't think you're off the hook. You have so many secrets that… you seem so different from the dance teacher I went to have coffee with." He poked at his noodles. "All I'm saying is that I don't like you snooping through my personal things. I don't mind showing stuff to you, but next time please ask." He went back to struggling with his food. The chopsticks kept slipping or crossing or he dropped pieces of food. Little made it to his mouth and after several failed attempts he huffed and set his chopsticks down. He understood the concept, he could use chopsticks but he lacked the dexterity and proficiency in using them. "Can I use a fork?" he finally asked.

Natasha shrugged and jerked her chin to the Panda Express. "Help yourself." She took a sip of water, her foot bobbing to an imagine beat. Scowling, he got up and walked over to the Panda Express, finding the container of plastic forks and snatching one. He bit the inside of his cheek and grabbed a knife. His mother taught him proper table manners after all. He came back to find Natasha looking at him with an intense gaze. "Yes?" he asked, sitting down.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to… hurt you like that." It seemed to him that she was pondering something but decided against it. "Next time I'll ask." She smiled.

"Thank you," he said, "that's all I ask."

She nodded and tapped the table. "I was thinking that maybe we could tell each a secret we never told anyone before, not even our closest friends." She smiled. "As a way to make up for… my snooping."

"Oh," he said. He cut up the larger chunks of meat, before eating them. It sounded like an odd way to apologize, but it seemed harmless enough. "Okay. Why don't you go first?" he offered. He wasn't sure if he had any secret he never told anyone — not even Bucky — so he'll have to think for a moment. He watched her as he ate his food. She took a long swallow of water and twisted the cap back on, a pensive expression on her face.

"Something that I never told anyone before, hmmm…" she tapped her lip. "I found a baby snowshoe hare near my house and I managed to catch it and keep it in a shoebox for a few days before my mother found out and told me to get let it go before its mommy missed it." She grinned. "I named it Snow White, because of course it was a girl bunny and it was a snowshoe hare" — she shrugged — "made sense to me."

He chuckled. "I never had pets as a kid. Too poor, too sick. Momma didn't have time to work, watch me and watch a pet," he said, swiping his finger through some sauce and sticking it into his mouth. "When I was four or five, can't remember — I was little at the time, old enough to understand that when Momma put stuff in the basket it came home with us, but not that she had to pay for it — we went shopping and she only bought chocolate during Christmas, but I wanted a Hersey's chocolate bar. So, I took one and put it in my pocket. We left the store and that evening after dinner I pulled out my chocolate bar" — he grinned — "Momma asked where I got it and I told her I got from the store. She was _livid_. Read me the riot act, even took her wooden spoon and gave my ass one good whack so I'd remember. I was sore for a week. Never did that again. And whenever I had pocket money and bought chocolate, I made sure to show her the recipe." He shook his head. "Never told anyone that."

"But it's just chocolate," she said, "I'm sure every kid stolen some candy from the grocery store before."

"It's the fact that I stole it. Stealing is wrong. The next day we went back to the store and my mother tried to hand back to the chocolate, but the clerk — Mr. Jefferies — said not to worry about it. Boys will be boys. My mother insisted on paying him the ten cents anyway."

"Ten cents for a bar of chocolate?" she asked, eyes widening. He nodded. "That's cheap."

"Not really" — he rolled his eyes — "I mean, _yeah_, it sounds cheap now considering candy bars are two dollars at most stores, but back then ten cents was average. Times were different. It was the Roaring Twenties. Life was on the up and up — for most people. For poor single Irish mothers with a tragically sickly kid — not so much." He finished off his food, tossing the soiled napkins and utensils into the container.

"So, do you miss it?" she asked. "Back then? The good old days?" She twisted the cap off her water and sipped at it. The crowds chattered around them, a song from the radio trying to cut its way through the noise of sneakers squeaking on polish floors and people laughing and children shrieking. Silence insulted their little table it seemed, the noise of the mall far away.

"It's not so bad," he said, "no polio is good, internet" — he gestured to her phone — "so helpful. Been reading that a lot to catch up. Food's a lot better too, we used to boil everything."

"That sounds tragically depressing."

"Oh, it is," he said. "Especially when you could hardly afford salt and spices. I can't look at a piece of boiled beef without throwing up a little in my mouth."

"So, besides carrots is there anything you won't eat?" she asked, gathering up her trash and standing. He followed suite as he thought about it.

"Not really. Growing up I couldn't really afford to be too choosey. I was sick a lot, vegetables were good for me, so I ate them. Plus, my momma always told me to be thankful for the food I had. Still, whenever we had anything with carrots I tried to weasel my way out of eating them. I'd pick them out and hide them in my napkin and throw them out when she wasn't looking."

"I bet she knew."

"Of course, she did," he said, tossing the trash into the bin. "Mothers have a knack for knowing everything their child does." He stretched, hearing his spine pop. Natasha looked him up and down, an appreciative twinkle in her eye. "What?"

"Just thinking that we may need to get you a hat, so we don't have a scenario like with those girls again." They slipped into the stream of the crowd, the bag of his old clothes swinging from her wrist. They had a plethora of stores to choose from to find a hat. "Anyway, your mother sounds like a good woman."

"Yeah, she was," he said, his voice tender as he reminisced. "Strong too… I miss her."

"I miss my mother too, but fortunately for me, she calls me every Saturday and complains about how unfriendly people in Seattle are and how much it rains, and nobody knows how to drive when it snows" — she laughed — "coming from Alaska, snow does not bother her, but it shuts the entire city of Seattle down."

He nodded, watching the people and listening to her. The sound of her laughter was hypnotic and the more she laughed, the more he realized he liked the sound of it. They passed a couple of kiosks. One said it was a hurricane tunnel, a few were fancy message chairs and the last one was a bulky looking square with curtains for doors. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the kiosk.

"Oh, a photo booth, you give it like two or three dollars and you get a strip of pictures. Friends do it a lot," she said, "and teenager girls," she added.

He grabbed her hand, dragging her towards it. It sounded like fun. Everyone had a camera during the war and took pictures of the inhumanities of the human creature. He pushed aside the curtain, the screen flashing through advertisements of the product. Two dollars for a single strip, four for two. He sat down, tugging her into the space next to him on the tiny bench. It was a tight fit and he had to twist his torso to make sure she was seated in relative comfort. "I never done this before with a pretty dame." She arched a brow. "I mean… woman — uh… I —"

"Don't hurt yourself," she said, "it's fine." She nudged him, and he grunted as something poked him in the shoulder. "I'll get it started." She reached for her wallet. "Do we want one strip or two?"

"Two," he said, "consider this rendez-vous amical numéro trois." He nudged her, a seductive smile on his lips and watched as the blush crept into her cheeks. She fed the machine four dollars and selected two strips.

"Get ready," she said, pushing him away from her, "and don't look at me like that."

He chuckled, readjusting himself to face the camera. _Neutral_ flashed across the screen followed by a countdown. He relaxed his shoulders and gave the camera a lopsided smile as the camera flashed. The screen flashed the words _goofy_. "Uh…" he looked at her.

"Look silly," she said, giving rabbit ears and leaning towards him. Looking around, he gave the camera a big grin and a thumbs up. The machine took the picture. "You did it wrong," Natasha said. "You're supposed to be silly."

"I thought that was silly."

"No, we're redoing it," she said. "give me antlers."

"Antlers?"

"Yeah, hold your hands behind my head and I'll give you bunny ears. It'll look great," she said. The countdown started, and he held up his hands behind her head and she wove her arm around his shoulders to give him bunny ears. It was crazy how they had to twist around each other. They were close enough that he could smell her perfume. A subtle floral scent of roses and lilies, it reminded him of sunny evenings after an afternoon rain. The camera flashed. Natasha giggled as it gave them a preview of their picture. He grinned; she was right: they did look ridiculous.

_Jungle animals _flashed across the screen. "What are you going to do?" she asked, tugging down her top. "I'm thinking of doing a leopard."

"A leopard is on the savannah," he said, "I had a book on animals when I was a kid. And I'm going to do a monkey."

"Leopards also live in the jungle." The count began. "Okay get ready." She held up her hands like claws and gave the camera a snarl. Laughing, he scratched at an armpit and his head like a monkey, even adding monkey sounds to get the mouth position right. The camera flashed. "You look like a dork," she said, pointing to the preview image.

"I'm a monkey," he said, "why wouldn't a look like a dork." He laughed, surprised at how much fun he was having doing this. "You look scary, all snarly and fierce," he said, which sparked a peal of laughter from her. The screen changed to flash the next pose. "Chin in hands?" He wrinkled his nose. "What's that?"

"You make a V with your hands and rest your chin at the base," she said, slanting her hands until the tips of her middle fingers touched and nestled her chin in. "Or you can do it like this." She touched the heel of her palms together and rested her chin in. "Either way. And then you make a face." She pursed her lips and batted her lashes at him. He flushed.

"You look like Betty Boop," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. The countdown began and he opted for the first version she showed him, feeling stupid doing this. He made a silly snarly face and the camera flashed. "I don't look too bad," he said, "you still look like Betty Boop."

"Do not," she said nudging him. The next pose was a cheek kiss and he swallowed, glancing at her while slipping his arm around her shoulders.

"Steve, we're friends," she whispered, even though she did nothing to push his arm off her shoulders. She even scooted a little closer, her hand resting on his chest. "Are you sure you're comfortable with this?" she asked.

A small thrill sparked along his nerves and in that moment, he realized how kissable her lips appeared. "Yeah," he said, "friends can kiss each other on the cheek."

"Okay, if you're sure," she said, a smiling tugging on her lips as the blush in her cheeks began to darken.

Letting out a quick breath he leaned forward — the softness of her lips as she kissed him in the broom closet, the scent of her perfume, the way her body pressed against his. It felt natural and perfect, as if they were meant to be, two pieces to a puzzle. Natasha leaned forward as he did, and before he could stop her — or say anything — their lips met. For a heartbeat he tensed before easing into it, putting his hand on her waist and drawing her closer to him by her shoulders. Her lips were soft; he could taste the spice of the Chinese food she had. The camera flashed and took the picture. They pulled apart — blushing — neither looking at the preview of their final picture.

_ Thank you for playing! Please take your pictures!_ The machine flashed the words across the screen and spat out two strips of pictures. Natasha grabbed the bag and he grabbed the pictures. Since she was smaller, she slipped out of the booth first and he followed her.

"Here," he said, nudging her arm and handing her a strip. "I think they turned out pretty good." He looked over the pictures, smiling at them. "I had fun." That spark danced along his nerves when her fingertips brushed against his as she took the strip of photos from him. She slipped it into her purse without looking.

His pocket buzzed and chimed several times. "Damn it." Grumbling he pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Gently," he reminded himself, putting the phone on top of his strip of pictures. Swiping up across the screen he saw several texts from Tony.

_DID YOU JUST HANG UP ON ME? YOU DO NOT HANG UP ON ME! I'M TONY STARK! TONY. STARK. YOU HEAR ME? OH WAIT, YOU DON'T! BECAUSE YOU HUNG UP ON ME! _The texts read. Steve flushed, awkward and embarrassed, then a banner dropped down with the words _incoming call Tony Stark_ flashing. The phone buzzed and rang. Quickly, he pressed the green phone and brought it up to his ear. "Hello, Tony?"

"Finally," Tony said. "Took you long enough, what was possibly more important than me?"

"Sorry," he said, turning his back on Natasha should she wouldn't overhear his conversation — not that she could with noise of the mall, but he felt it was the polite thing to do. "I was having fun with Natasha, we did one of those photo booths at the mall."

"Exciting, I hope you stole a kiss while you did it. I did that with Pepper once. I think she still has the photo," Tony said. "Also, you know your pretty little girlfriend—"

"Tony, she's not my girlfriend. She's my" — he licked his lips, what was Natasha. She almost felt more than a friend but not quiet a lover. She was his dancer teacher, but it felt like what they do now is beyond what a student and teacher would do — "she's my —"

"She's your what?" Tony asked. Steve didn't answer. "Girlfriend got it. Anyway, your _girlfriend_, was a —"

"Tony, she ki—"

Natasha suddenly turned to him, a look of nervous panic in her eyes. "Steve, we need to go now," she said. He swallowed, feeling her palpable fear and wondering what had her so spooked. Scanning the crowd, he tried to look for something or someone that would have scared her. A scary ex-boyfriend maybe, but he saw nothing.

"Hey Tony, I'm gonna have to let you go. Bye." He hung up, not waiting for Tony's response. "Natasha?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder as he slipped the phone and photos into his pocket. The sudden twitch of her muscles caused him to withdraw his hand, the fear he saw moments ago replaced by a serious expression. It made his own nerves twist in his gut, the little hairs on his nape standing up — he _felt _as if someone was watching them. Nobody was watching him, not even adoring fans hanging at the edge of the crowd. Yet, his senses told him _someone_ was there, and clearly Natasha's did too.

"Follow me," she said, slipping into the crowd.

"Are we in danger?" he asked, unsure what suddenly came over her. She shook her head, shoulders and back straight. They passed a booth selling baseball caps with various logos on it. She swiped one when the clerk wasn't looking and tugged off the tag, throwing it into the trash bin.

"Put this on," she said, handing him the cap. He took it and frowned at the Yankees logo emblazon in white against the black hat.

"The Yankees?" he asked. "C'mon. You're gonna make a diehard Dodgers fan wear a Yankees cap?" he asked.

"Just put it on Steve," she snapped. He frowned, putting the hat on with a grumble. "It's just a hat."

"But it's the _Yankees_. I hate the Yankees." He felt awkward wearing it. "I feel like I'm betraying the Dodgers."

"I'm sure they'll understand," she said, "besides, how can you call yourself a self-respecting New Yorker and not support the _only_ decent New York team?" She took his hand, weaving them through the crowd.

"What do you mean _only_ decent New York team? The Dodgers are from Brooklyn!" he said, his broad frame helping to part the crowd. Natasha didn't answer. "The Dodgers are still from Brooklyn, right?"

"In here." She tugged him into a store. The interior was painted black, posters of bands and pop culture hung on the wall along with t-shirt displays. Rock music blared through the speakers and a young woman dressed in all black with facial piercing and a studded collar around her throat stood behind the counter. Much to his surprise her hair was a bright neon turquoise.

"Hi welcome to Spencer's," she chirped, her teeth too white against her too pale skin and black lipsticks. "If there's anything I can help you with just let me know."

"Thanks," he said as Natasha tugged him into the back of the store, an obnoxious neon yellow sign at eye level read _18 and Older Only Beyond this Point_. He frowned, Natasha tugging him passed it. This section of the store was brighter, with rainbow flags and other flags with various colored stripes, boxes with naked women coyly covering their intimate parts. Topless men with rippling muscles, and boxes displaying brightly colored rubber penises with brand names to evoke fun filled pleasure and debauchery. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he whispered as he stared at all the sex toys. Natasha edged to the barrier between family friendly section of the store and the adult content.

"I think we'll be okay in here for a little bit, he didn't notice we slipped in here," she said, leaning back. "You okay Steve?"

"I just…" he blinked, as his entire face turned red. "I just… don't know what to say." He rubbed his face. "Sister Mary Ann told us that our hands would fall off if we uh… touched ourselves and this is practically encouraging it!"

Natasha chuckled and picked up a little box with a fake penis on it. There was a neon blue band at the base of the rubber penis. "You're telling me you never played with a cock ring?" she asked. "I heard they do wonders for male orgasm." She set it back on the shelf. "They even made ones with the Avengers' colors." He watched as her fingers danced over the boxes — one for each Avenger — and a sinking feeling filled his gut when she picked the Captain America cock ring out. "What about this one?"

"Natasha, please." He looked away, tugging the ballcap lower over his face. This was embarrassing and inappropriate. Sex was a private thing between couples, it shouldn't be discussed in public — let alone displayed on store shelves in blatant wantonness. His mother and Sister Mary Ann were probably rolling in their graves as soon as he set foot in here. "It's inappropriate."

"You know what, I'm going to get it," she said, tossing the box from hand to hand. "It'll come in handy later." She winked at him with a flirty smirk on her lips. He cleared his throat with a cough, looking at his feet and the glittery black surface of the floor.

"Can we leave now?" he asked, tucking his hands into his armpits. "This makes me uncomfortable."

Natasha peeked out at the rest of the store and gave a curt little nod. "Yeah," she said, leading him out of the sex section and went to the counter. The clerk told her she made a great choice and rung her up. He wasn't surprised when she bought the item with cash and dropped it into a black plastic bag with _Spencer's _emblazoned on it and slipped it into her purse. "C'mon," she said as they left the store. "We should be getting back to Brooklyn," she said, glancing at her watch. "We may be able to beat rush hour." She looked at him.

"Is there something on my face?" he asked, running his hand over his face to make sure there was no stray bits of food.

She shook her head. "No, just thinking how we won't be able to get you a haircut." She headed out of the store. "Or those protein bars, but we can do that tomorrow or another day."

"That's fine," he said, following her and glad to be rid of the store. "I can always get a hair cut on my own. Or you can come with me." She nodded at that last statement, taking the stairs down to the first floor to get out of the mall. Once they were outside and moving in the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk, he noticed she seemed to ease the tension in her shoulders. Whatever spooked her didn't seem to have follow them. Silently, he followed her to the subway.

* * *

The last time he rode the New York subway, he had only been out of the ice for a few weeks. Sitting there in the car with a moderate amount of people, he felt trapped. The sounds of passing subways, the close quarters, the door at the end of the car faced his back and the lighting was all artificial. Outside in the terminals it was loud and echoey as people bustled to and from various places, oblivious to each other. He had sat in the car, playing with his hands in an effort to relax. There was a tightness in his chest that reminded him of an asthma attack. It was only when the train stopped at the station he wanted did he get out, and once he got above ground he felt better.

He also didn't like trains. Trains brought back memories of the war, of the train Zola was on when they captured him, of the bulky Hydra goon with those two blasters that refused to stay down. The blue blast of light ricocheting off his shield as Bucky held it — blasting a hole in the side and sending his friend to his death. Whenever he thought about it, the events played out in slow motion. Each second seemed a life time and if he had only reached a little bit further he would have been able to grab Bucky — pull him up, save his life. "Steve?" Natasha asked, a few steps from the bottom of the stairway that lead into the twisting labyrinthine belly of the New York subway. "You okay?" she asked.

"Y-Yeah," he said, running a hand down his face. Goosebumps prickled his skin and he shivered as he took the last few steps to walk by her side. The large vaulted ceiling amplified the rushing metallic sound of trains, music and announcement mingled with it from speakers and the voices of people as they hurried about their day. The tightness in his chest returned and he rubbed his sternum, reminding himself to take deep slow breaths — the way his way his mother taught him whenever he felt the beginnings of an asthma attack.

"You okay?" Natasha asked again, a look of concern on her face. "We can call for one of Tony's town cars. It'll take longer to get to Brooklyn but—"

"No" — he shook his head, dropping his hand from his chest — "I'm fine. Just… didn't ride the subway much when I was a kid. Too expensive and… you didn't really leave your borough back then." He focused on breathing and following her through the crowd of people. She used her Stark Industries pass for them both and guided him from the gate to the platform leading from Manhattan to Brooklyn. He tugged her further back from the yellow stripe marking the edge of the platform — he could of swore he saw the endless snowy alpine abyss into which Bucky fell instead of the dark metal tracks. Cold sweat dribbled down his neck and he swallowed. The walls felt like they were closing in, people pressing in around them. A train blared, slowing down as it near the station until it came to a halt. A woman's cool voice told them to stand aside to let people get off the subway before allowing them to get on.

He found a seat quickly, sitting on the very edge, leaning forward to put his head between his knees, hoping the dizziness passed. Natasha's light touch on his back jerked him upright. "Yeah?"

"You look pale, are you sure you're alright? We still have time to get off." He shook his head. "Alright," she said, concern evident in her voice. The doors hissed closed and the train groaned into motion, quickly gaining speed as it did so. Natasha stood by him, holding onto one of the over head straps. He tried to focus on something mindless, something that help calm him. The ricket-ticket-tak of the train as it sped along the tracks reminded him of gunfire — mortars exploding feet away from him, showers of snow and dirt clods, bloody bits of bone and flesh, screams of men too young to die yet old enough to fight, if only they would land face down… made saying goodbye easier — another train passed them and he looked up, trying to orientate himself in the present. He twisted his fingers, looking at the oblivious people on the subway. Shuddering, he let out a long breath and rubbed his tightening chest. He hadn't had an asthma attack since receiving the serum, but with a childhood filled with them he knew what the beginnings felt like.

"Hold it together," he whispered to himself as the train continued to rumble along. Natasha looked at him, but he offered her a queasy smile. "I'm fine," he told her. She nodded, and he went back to focusing on his breathing and reciting his prayers. It helped, allowing him to focus on something that wasn't his surroundings or his too vivid memories. His skin still crawled, and it was hard to focus, and everything seemed too loud, but the rising sense of anxiety and panic was abating. The train slowed to a stop, more people got off and on. A mother with two school age boys got on the train, she sat a little bit away from them and she watched her boys wrestle around a pole.

He smiled at the sight, remembering how he and Bucky used to play. The older of the two boys looked like Bucky as a child. The train's doors began to close, and the older boy slipped in his play falling towards the rapidly closing door. The sensation of falling filled his gut, his chest tightened as he watched the boy — Bucky. Bucky was falling, and he had to help. He had to save his best friend, because Bucky was always there for him. He couldn't let Bucky die. He had promised Bucky's family he'd keep him safe. He couldn't let Bucky die and Bucky was falling — he moved to go to the boy, but Natasha's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

The mother already had the situation under control, another gentleman had saved the boy and she was scolding her two sons into unhappy guilt-ridden submission. Steve swallowed, rubbing again at his sternum, tremors running up and down his body as memories of Bucky's fall continued to flash over and over in his mind. A moment he was on the subway, the next he was back on the train with the icy mountain air buffeting him as he helplessly listened to Bucky's screams. "I can't breathe," he whispered. "I can't breathe."

"Steve? Steve are you alright?" Natasha asked. The train continued to lumber on — Zola's voice over the intercom telling his goons to fire again, to kill him — a woman's voice chiming as they arrived at the next stop. "Steve, look at me."

"I can't breathe," he repeated, pressing his fingers deeper into his sternum. His chest felt so tight, it was hard to get air in, let alone get air out. His vision swam, black spots popping before his eyes as ghostly figures from his past mingled with the people of the present. Bucky's screams and the howl of the wind blanketing everything. "I can't breathe" — a shuddering breath escaped him — "Bucky… I… Bucky…"

"Steve" — she grabbed his face — "look at me. We're almost there, the next stop is ours."

"I can't breathe… I have to… Bucky… can't breathe," he repeated, wheezing as he struggled to get in a decent size breath. Bucky lost his grip on the metal railing. "Oh, God… Bucky…" He tried to grab for his friend but slipped at the same time Bucky's grip failed him — reflexively he grabbed something to keep from falling too and he watched as Bucky vanished in the wake of snow and ice. "No no no no no… my fault… all my fault… I failed…"

"Steve, listen to me. Just breathe. Breathe. It's okay. It's over. Whatever happened is over," Natasha said, her thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. "It's okay, just breathe."

He tried to focus on her, but the image of her face swam. "I can't —"

"Yes, you can," she said, "just listen to my voice. We're almost there. Another few minutes. I'm not leaving you. I'll be right here the entire time. Just breathe, focus on your breathing and listen to the sound of my voice. It's okay."

He shook his head, breaking free of her hold. It felt like he was drowning, the water pressing on his lungs. He couldn't breathe, no matter how much he tried he just couldn't. Air wheezed in and out of his mouth as his vision swam. Bucky was dangling from the railing of the train, a massive hole in its side. He had to get to Bucky, had to save Bucky. "I can't…"

The train came to a halt, the woman's voice announcing their stop. "C'mon, get up," Natasha said, slipping her hands beneath his armpits. "Steve, I need you to stand up."

He tried only to crumple to the floor. Everything was spinning, the world was doing flips and he didn't know where (or when) he was. Bucky was falling, and it was all his fault. He let Bucky die, he was the reason why Bucky was dead. He wasn't fast enough — wasn't _strong enough_ — to save his best friend. Bucky's blood was on his hands. "I can't… I can't… I can't…"

"Steve, you need to get up, I can't carry your heavy ass all the way to your apartment," she said. He felt her slip her hands beneath him arms again. "We need to get off the train," she said.

"Off…" the notion sounded strange but right at the same time. Trying to catch his breath, he pushed himself up to his feet with her help and stumbled out of the train and onto the concrete platform. He made it about two feet before collapsing, throwing up some bile. "Bucky…" he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks, "Bucky… I'm sorry Bucky… I'm sorry… so sorry… Bucky…"

* * *

**The first subway was opened in New York on October 24, 1904. I imagine the subway was rather expensive (for the time) and didn't have as many routes, figuring it was more of a luxury than a common means of transportation like it is now. **

**Anyway work is good. Be patient with me as I'm doing Night Audit, so I sleep during the day and work at night. I seem to be writing every other day and a few paragraphs at most. I'll try to do more. **

**Save an author; leave a review.**


	9. IX

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

_Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub._

_ "Again. Do it again. It must be perfect." The crack of the riding crop on the windowsill made her flinch. "I will not suffer less than perfection!" Madame B hissed, lifting her chin up with a haughty sniff. "Do it again." _

_ Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Bang-bang. Bang-bang. _

_ "Sloppy," Madame B said, studying the bullet holes in the paper target. The cluster wasn't as tight as it should be, yet each bullet would have pierced a vital organ. "Again!" Madame B slapped the riding crop against the wall. She flinched, almost dropping the pistol from her aching hands. "Do I sense weakness Natalia?" the crone asked. _

_ "No, Madame B," she said, dropping the empty clip at her fit and slamming home a fresh one. "I'm fine." She sighted the gun and pulled the trigger. _

_ Bang-bang. Bang-bang. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub… dub… _

The blood rushing in her ears sounded like gunshots. Steve was rubbing at his sternum, muttering how he couldn't breathe and someone's name over and over again. All color had drain from his face, his pupils dilated to the point that only a thin sliver of blue remained. People were staring at them and Natasha knew that there was no way they'd make it to their stop in Brooklyn. "Steve" — she grabbed his face — "look at me. We're almost there, the stop after this is ours." He just had to hold on for a few more minutes, they could make it if he kept it together for a few more minutes. "I can't breathe… I have to… Bucky… can't breathe," he repeated. It disturbed her that his breathes came out in raspy wheezes. She could feel him trembling beneath her hands, and see the tears glistening in his eyes. "Oh, God… Bucky…" He adverted his gaze, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips. "No no no no no… my fault… all my fault… I failed…"

"Steve, listen to me. Just breathe. Breathe. It's okay. It's over. Whatever happened is over," Natasha said, her thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. "It's okay, just breathe." His eyes were unfocused, as if he was a lifetime away. She licked her lips and glanced at the electronic banner over the doors of the train. They had no choice. She had to get him off the train. She didn't think he would get violent, but she couldn't risk it or him passing out. There was a sharp snapping sound and she flinched. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at the people on the train: an older man read a newspaper, a woman tried to shush her screaming toddler, several younger people had earbuds in — obliviously unaware of what was going outside the virtual world of their phones, a young woman read a book. Most of the people stood and stared at the ceiling and those sitting down looked out the window at the dark tunnels of the subway, counting the beams of light as they passed. It was the man at the far end that stared at her and gave a minute nod before looking out the window.

Shit.

They needed to get off the train. Now. "I can't —" Steve whispered, shaking despite the stuffiness of the train.

"Yes, you can," she said, "just listen to my voice. We're almost there. Another few minutes. I'm not leaving you. I'll be right here the entire time. Just breathe, focus on your breathing and listen to the sound of my voice. It's okay." She had to believe it would be okay — for his sake — and hers. He shook his head, breaking free of the hold she had on his face.

"I can't…"

The train came to a halt, the woman's voice announcing the stop. People stood up, milling about. You are a shadow, a memory as soon as you're spotted. You have no place, so you belong nowhere. Unseen within any crowd. The riding crop slapping — _crack_ — against the wall as she danced until the blisters on her feet burst and her ankles and knees swelled. The breakable ones break. The unbreakable… Swallowing, Natasha shook herself and forced down her own rising panic. They both couldn't lose it. "C'mon, get up," she said, slipping her hands beneath his armpits as she locked away her memories and emotions. "Steve, I need you to stand up."

Steve tried only to crumple to the floor. "I can't… I can't… I can't…" he muttered. Biting her tongue to keep the swears at bay, she glanced over at the people getting ready to leave the train. And there in the back was the that man again. The one that locked his gaze on her. A gaze that sent chills down her spine and fear coiling in her gut. They needed to leave.

"Steve, you need to get up, I can't carry your heavy ass off this train," she said, slipping her hands beneath him arms again. "We need to get off the train," she said. Otherwise, we will both die. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath.

"Off…" he whispered. She nodded and lifted him up — this time he helped her, getting his feet underneath them himself and leaning against her as they stumbled out the door with the rest of the crowd. The plastic bag with his old clothes bumping against her hip. They made it across the yellow line before he collapsed again, throwing up some bile. "Bucky…" he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. She dropped to the ground, rubbing his back. "Bucky… I'm sorry Bucky… I'm sorry… so sorry… Bucky…"

Who the hell was Bucky? She frowned, her hand running along his spine in a soothing back and forth motion. Another quick glance over her shoulder and she saw him. The man that had been watching them. Standing among the stream of commuters he looked uncannily out of place, a crooked malevolent smile tugging at his lips.

It wasn't Dmitri. Dmitri wasn't this sinister. Dread pooled in her gut — Odessa, as he shot through her to kill the physicist. The Red Room as she fought against him to the sounds of Tchaikovsky, the sunlight glinting off the metal of his arm — he was here. He was here and watching them.

_ This is your chance, kill him, complete your mission. Nothing is more important than the mission._

Swallowing several times didn't relieve her dry throat. Taking deep breaths didn't stop her shaking. He stood there, watching them and before the crowd thinned, he vanished among the stream of people, vanishing as if he was never there — a ghost in her memory. Bile rose in her throat, the bitter acidity sharp on her tongue; she knew he was still there — out of sight but not gone. If she didn't do something quickly…

Nobody bothered to stop and help her. That was the thing with modern people: they were too self-absorbed to care about anyone but their own problems. Even the so-called activists seemed to do too little, too late in most cases. People chose to delve into a budding virtual world and check out from the real. Granted, she didn't beg for help and a few people glanced at them but left them alone afraid to get dragged into a potential lawsuit. The sue-happy culture had effectively curtailed the concept of a good Samaritan. Natasha glanced over her shoulder, trying to spot him, but she knew how good he was, why most of the intelligence community (in both the US and Russia) believed he was nothing more than a ghost — a boogeyman to keep politicians and diplomats in line — she also knew he was still watching them. In her purse was a knife, she was close enough to Steve that she could slip the knife between his ribs, pierce his heart and let him bleed out before paramedics arrived. Tomorrow's headlines would read _Captain America dead in the Subway_. The nation would mourn while she flew back to Russia, hailed as a hero.

Her record was spotless. All missions completed. This mission should be no different. He wasn't a person, he was a target. A thing to be twisted and manipulated until she was ready to kill him. A cat toying with a mouse before delivering the killing blow, a spider watching the fly struggle in her web. She slipped her hand into her purse, feeling for the knife. Her fingers brushed against the strip of photos and she stilled — the kiss in the broom closet, the accidental kiss the photo booth, the way he laughed, how he blushed when she teased him about sex, the way he held her when the danced — "We need to go," she said.

"Nat…" Steve's hand shot out, squeezing her bicep in a death grip. "No!" he pulled her close. "Don't go…. Don't… don't leave me… Nat…. please… don't leave me here…"

The realization that the terrified man before her was Steve Rogers — Captain America, the strong heroic symbol of American liberty and ideals — felt like a bucket of ice water washing over her. Fear gleamed in his blue eyes that glistened with unshed tears and he shivered. He was a man. A man broken and abandoned, trapped in a time not his own, where all he ever knew was dead and gone. Lost to the mists of time. The isolation he must be feeling was incomprehensible to her. This was the perfect moment to complete her mission, but she couldn't — not after seeing the look in Steve's eyes and how he clung to her as if she was the one lifeline he could find in the storm. She pulled her hand out of her purse and stroked his cheek, pulling him closer to her. He wrapped his arms around her in a death grip and held her. "I'm not going to leave you Steve," she whispered, "but I need you to get up" — because the Winter Soldier is watching us, and he scares me — "We need to get out of here before we cause a bigger scene."

"But… Bucky… gotta save Bucky…"

Shit. She didn't have time to play into his delusion. "And we are," she said, "we're going to save him. Get up so we can go save him."

"But I saw him fall!" Steve's voice was something of a high-pitched wail. It broke her heart.

"You caught him just in time, he's waiting for you at home," she lied. "C'mon, get up we need to get going." Thankfully, he relaxed his grip around body though he still leaned against her. His breathing was evening out — sounding less wheezy, though he still clutched at his chest — and the tremors began to lessen. "That's it," she said, encouraging him as he settled down. "You're okay, Steve. I'm here. I'm not going to leave you." This was wasting valuable time, but she couldn't drag him through the terminal to the exit. "I'm right here."

"Promise?" he asked, looking at her. "Promise me you'll stay?"

She smiled, feeling wretched inside for lying to him, for being the one sent to kill him. "I promise. I'll stay as long as you want," she said. "But we need to go." He nodded as she wiggled her arms beneath his armpits and this time, she was able to get him to his feet as he stood up with her assistance. "Lean against me, keep your head down," she said and began walking towards the exit.

"O-Okay," he said. The automated voice in the terminal announced the arrival of a train and the departure of another. She felt him flinch against her; she swallowed trying to not look over her shoulder too often — snow crunching beneath her feet, her breaths coming out in wispy silver puffs sparkling in the sparse moonlight. Wolves howled in the distance and baying of hounds behind her spurred her forward. Yelps and screams of the other girls somewhere in the darkness of the forest. She had to keep moving — keep moving. Natasha swallowed, weaving through the crowd, her pulse pounding in her ears. Steve was still shaking and mumbling beside her, clinging to her as if he was drowning. In a way he way, drowning in his memories, in the traumas of his life. Something cold brushed against her and her spine stiffened.

Don't turn around. Don't look — they are behind you, run run run run! Snow was up to her knees, running was so much work. Moonlight flickered through tall dark pines, slivers of silver light that made the snow sparkle. The meadow beyond was safety. The baying of the hounds grew louder as the did the howling of the wolves. Her fingers shook. She balled her hands into fists. A girl yelped somewhere in the darkness and the soft _pew-pew_ of a silenced weapon echoed throughout the dark forest. She froze, eyes searching the trees, trying to pinpoint her enemy. The wind buffed her, cold and icy and the baying of the hounds grew ever closer —behind you. Natasha swallowed and pushed them forward, climbing the stairs to the upper level of the terminal, passed the stands selling touristy knickknacks, newspapers and snacks. She could feel the wind from somewhere — either the air conditioning or the air from the surface.

The gate was in front of them, people feeding their cards to the machines or tapping them on sensors. Swearing she fished out their train ticket and tried to shuffle Steve ahead of her, hoping that if he panics he'll be like a bull in a china shop and break the terminal's little three prong gate. Steve whimpered, shaking his head and refusing to let go of her. "C'mon, Steve, you have to let go. Just for a moment. I'll be right behind you."

"No… please… no…"

Swallowing, she looked at the sad defeated look he had. "I'll hold your shirt" — she gripped the back of his shirt — "but you go first, I won't let go of you."

"Promise?"

She nodded. "I promise." She smiled. "Go." She clung onto his shirt as she fed the machine their tickets. It clicked as they went through and she wormed her way into his side. People talked, it sounded like nonsense babble and she could smell the sickly-sweet air of the city above. Relief flooded her heart — the meadow was just beyond those threes, she could see the indigo expanse of the night sky studded with ten thousand stars, the dark shapes of her teachers waiting for the girls that made it through the woods. The baying of the hounds grew ever closer and the _pew-pew_ of the silenced weapons popped at random moments, but she was close now, so close to freedom. To passing the test. Pulse pounding in her ears, she pushed herself onward, through the snow and the dark forest to the meadow beyond. A bullet hit a tree in front of her and she froze, and she glanced over her shoulder — and there he was standing there at the very edge of the crowd on the other side of the gate. "No," she whispered, fear flooding her system — she could see the moonlight glinting off the eyes of the hounds, the dark shadowy shapes of the men hunting her and the other girls. Freedom was so close, she just had to keep going —

"Natasha?" Steve whispered, pulling her closer to his chest. Shaking, she took two deep breaths and dragged him along. He needed her. She had to be strong for him. The crowd was thick, and she pushed through the people and headed towards the subway's stairs. Gripping his shirt, she led him up the stairs and into the warm evening light of Brooklyn. Cars honked and rumbled along the streets, the sticky humid air filled with the scents of the city: trash, exhaust, concrete and asphalt and the smell of people wafted over them. A jet rumbled through the sky overhead and she felt Steve flinch beside her.

"It's okay," she said, getting her bearings — she ran from the hounds, charging forward with a burst of adrenaline and sheer determination to survive. The dogs barked, and she could imagine them nipping at her heels. She had more than one girl that night being pulled under by the furious pack of dogs. Another bullet hit a tree, sending bark and bits of wood flying into her face. She protected her eyes with her arms. The meadow was just up ahead. She could make it. She _will _make it. She had to. — and steering them in the direction of her apartment. "This way," she said, putting a little pressure on the small of his back and forcing him to walk. Steve followed without hesitation. The shaking stopped, and he wasn't holding her in such a death grip. It seemed that getting out onto the street was helping to calm down.

* * *

The walk to her apartment was fifteen minutes. Every now and then she'd glance over her shoulder but saw nothing but average people on the sidewalk, heading to and from their destinations. No man with cruel eyes, no shadows from her past. By the time she reached the apartment building, Natasha was beginning to believe that she must've imagined seeing the Winter Soldier in the subway terminal. It was all in her head, her own panic brought on by Steve's sudden panic attack. Still, she didn't lower her guard. Just because they reached her apartment didn't mean they were safe. It was defensible — she hoped — but if the Winter Soldier was truly hunting her then she feared there was very little she could do against him. Steve grunted when she helped him leaned against the wall. "Where are we?" he croaked, his head angled to face the ceiling.

"My place," she said, pulling her keys out and opening the door. She took his hand. "C'mon." A gentle tug got him moving and she kicked the door close behind her. Steve flinched at the loud bang and she rubbed his arm. "It's okay — shh, shh — you're okay, Steve." She got him to the couch and a gentle press on his shoulders got him to sit down. His skin was sallow, pupils dilated, but at last h was breathing normally. There was tension still in his shoulders and the way he glanced around her apartment. The scrutiny he was giving her place made her skin crawl as she went over and locked the door, slipping the bolt and chain — weak and flimsy though it was — home to add an extra sense of security and protection for their demons.

A small trill echoed through the apartment and she watched as Liho came trotting out to investigate what was going on. The little black kitten went up to Steve — bold as brass she was — and rubbed against his legs. Smiling, she watched the two. "Hi, kitty," Steve said, his voice soft — broken sounding as if the fight left him — and he scratched Liho behind her ears. Liho purred, arching into his touch. Steve picked Liho up and settled her on his lap, his large hands engulfing her tiny head, but gentle and soothing as he stroked her. Natasha pushed away from the door and busied herself in the kitchen, making hot chocolate for them, and then maybe something that would resemble dinner. "I didn't know you had a cat," he said.

"Found her in the dumpster behind the dance studio," she said, pulling down two mugs once the kettle started to whistle. "I need to take her back to the vet and get the stitches out. She's a sweet girl."

"What's her name?"

The water gurgled, steam billowing up from the mugs and the water turning a muddy chocolatey brown. "Liho."

"What does it mean?"

She chuckled, slipping a spoon into one mug. "Liho is an evil spirit in Slavic folklore, often seen as a one eye old women dressed in black or an evil forest goblin." A soft silence spread between them, broken only by the tingling of the spoon against the side of the mug.

"Huh." She heard Steve shift on the couch. "Odd name for such a sweet kitty."

Smiling, she mixed milk into their hot chocolates and dropped a few marshmallows into each. "Yeah, well she is a black cat and you know what they about a black cat."

"Black cats are actually bringers of good luck," he said, "especially if you treat them well." He smiled up at her, Liho tucked into the crook of his arm and making biscuits on his big left pec. The little kitten was purring up as storm, beads of drool oozing out of the corner of her mouth and her eyes all squinty with contentment. It was a sweet sight and for a moment Natasha imaged what he'd look like holding a baby in those big muscle-bound arms of his. The conjured image was delirious, and she licked her lips, finding she almost _wanted_ it. Him holding their baby, smiling up at her like he was doing now. The tension had left his shoulders and his pupils had gone back to a normal circumference. "Sorry," he said, dipping his head to kiss Liho's neck. She gave a sleepy protesting mew and crawled up until her upper body was pressed right into his neck; she stretched out one paw, spreading her toes and showing off her claws. "Read a lot as a kid."

"It's fine," she said, sitting next to him and offering him the mug of hot chocolate. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah." He sipped it, licking his lips to get all the chocolate. "A lot. I don't… I don't —"

"Hey, you don't have to explain anything to me," she said, patting his shoulder. "I understand." A comfortable companionable silence fell between them. Liho woke herself up with a soft squeak, shaking her head and sending drool in all directions. She wiggled free from Steve's gentle hold, walked across his board shoulders and jumped into her lap to curl up. "Hi baby girl," she said, petting the kitten which gave a happy mew. She rolled onto her back and stretched before rolling onto her stomach.

Steve frowned. "What happened to her?" he asked. Natasha gave a sad sigh, stroking the kitten.

"I had to get her spayed."

"Isn't that a good thing?" he asked. "No unwanted litters."

She didn't have a choice in the matter, the vet just did it to her. Her hand fell to her stomach, to her ruined womb where the dream of children died. "I guess." She gave a nonchalant shrug. "I have to take her to the vet tomorrow and get them removed. It's been about two weeks."

"Oh."

"You hungry?" she asked, picking Liho up and setting her down. "Or do you want to get back to your place?"

"You offering me dinner?" he asked, the beginnings of a crooked smile appear on his lips. There was a flutter in her chest, something in that look he gave her did something to her and she had to look away.

"Maybe," she said, heading into the kitchen to get out a sauce pan and a pot. "I'm not the best cook, but I can make a few dishes." She opened the fridge and pulled out a pack of ground beef, some cremini mushrooms, an onion and some green onions and a container of sour cream. When he didn't answer she smiled. "I won't poison it."

"I never figured you would," he said, "I trust you."

A lump appeared in her throat and she swallowed, closing the fridge and cutting open the pack of ground beef. "Good," she said, hoping the shakiness in her voice didn't appear. "I'm glad." Licking her lips, she started cooking, humming to herself as she moved about the kitchen. After a few minutes, the smell of carnalizing onions and garlic in butter filled the apartment, a pot of water was boiling away on the far-right burner on the stove with a pack of fettuccini noodles on standby. Natasha was mixing the ground beef in a large silver bowl. Paprika, Worcestershire sauce, minced green onions and garlic and onion powder had gone into the bowl. She popped a glob of meat into her mouth to taste and then added salt and pepper. Giving the onions and garlic a quick stir, she added the meat which sent up a loud sizzle. Once all the meat was in, she gave it a few good stirs before turning it down low and getting another pan out. Drizzling oil over the smooth surface, she got it hot and then added the sliced creminis with some salt and garlic.

"It smells really good," Steve said from the couch. He was watching the news, the soft drone of the reporter had mingled with the sounds of cooking, that she even forgot it was on. "What are you making?"

"Stroganoff," she said, "my mom's recipe." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. She had no mother, she had taught herself how to make this dish in case she ever had Steve over for dinner. There were a few other dishes she knew how to make: meatloaf, hamburgers, pork chops, Hungarian goulash, a few Russian dishes. Most of the time, she ate take out — her favorite being Thai food — and cooking wasn't her forte anyway.

"It smells delicious," he said, and the couch gave a soft creak and he padded into the kitchen. There was a soft thunk as he set his empty mug down. Without her shoes on, she realized how short she was compared to him. Her head came up to his collarbone and it felt like he towered over her. Yet, there was something comforting about his tall board frame behind her as he leaned over her shoulder to smell what she was making. Something quaintly domestic — the Winter Soldier spotting them in the subway, her failure to carry out her mission — "Can I have a taste?" he asked.

"Oh." She blinked, her thoughts broken by his simple question. "Sure" — pointing to the drawer with the silverware, gave the mushrooms a stir — "you're feeling better?"

"Much," he said, though there was some hesitation in his tone. "I'm sorry that happened. I… I just saw that boy and, it took me back."

It was a feeling she understood rather well. A seemingly innocent word, gesture, sound or even a mundane moment and it would conjure memories up from the abyss. Memories she didn't want to relive but had no choice. "It's okay," she said, offering him a smile as he came bac to her side. He scooped up some of the meat and blew on it before popping it into his mouth. "I don't judge people on things they can't control."

"This is good. Has a bite to it."

"That's the paprika and pepper" — she allowed herself to look pleased — "thanks." She opened the package off noodles and slid them into the boiling water, adding a half cup of oil. "I like things spicy."

"Well, it's good." He took another taste. Licking his lips, he said, "we used to boil everything. Momma could barely afford salt, so half the time anything I ate tasted bland. You can only gnaw on the same tough hunk of boiled beef for so long."

"You don't seem to have a fondness for carrots."

He laughed. "No," he agreed, "no I don't." Jiggling the spoon in his hand, he looked at the food she was working on. "I'd eat almost anything. Anything but carrots" — he frowned — "and liver. I won't touch — no — go into a room if I smell liver."

"What's wrong with liver?"

"Anemic as a kid, medicine wasn't the way it is today, so they gave me raw beef liver. Momma would mash it into a past, mix it with some water and make me drink it. And once a week, she'd lightly sear it and make me eat it." He looked ready to gag. "She was good friends with the local butcher."

"That sounds awful."

"Yeah, needless to say I never ate live after I got the serum." He shuffled behind her for a little bit before he decided to sit at the table.

"If you don't mind me asking," she said as she spooned some dollops of sour scream over the brown meat. "What changed for you after you got" — she gestured to him — "the serum?"

"I saw color for the first time," he said. She frowned. "I was colorblind. Red/green, so when I saw color for the first time, I…" he paused, and she frowned, glancing over her shoulder to look at him. There was a sad look on his face. "Her lips were such a bright red."

"Oh." Of course, the woman he used to love. It bothered her that she felt upset that he loved another. Only to remind herself that he could never love her — she was sent to kill him after all.

"And your hair," he said, a tenderness in his tone she didn't fail to miss. "I probably already told you, but I love your hair. It's such a pretty red. Bright like copper, yet dark and sultry like vermillion. If I could hold red in my hands, it'll probably be your hair color." A nervous chuckle escaped him. "I'm sorry, that was uh… awkward. I don't mean like… I mean, I guess I could say blood, but that would imply you're a bad person — which you aren't! Not at all! I think you're a wonderful person Natasha! Just… y'know, people think red and they think blood, but maybe — irunno — cherries or apples, hell, I think your hair reminds me of strawberries."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're a dork."

"Is that uh… a good thing?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. She laughed. "I hope it's a good thing."

"Well" — she smiled mischievously — "most women like men that are a little dorky," she said, stirring the meat and sour cream before adding the mushrooms. The noodles tumbled about n the boiling water and she fished one out, cutting it in half. "Here." She offered it to him, before eating her own. "How is it?" she asked. To her, it was tender with a bit of a firmness; perfect.

"Good. Tender, but not too soft," he said. She smiled, turning the burners off and grabbing the pot of noodles. Grunting, she lifted it. "Do you want me to get that for you?" he asked reaching for the hot underside.

"It's hot!" she hissed, trying to pull the pot away from him without sloshing boiling noodle water all over her front. "Get me the colander" — he frowned, eyes darting around her kitchen — "drawer down there to the left" — she pointed with her foot — "you see it?"

"Yeah" — he threw the cupboard door open with enough force she was afraid he'd rip it off its hinges and grabbed the colander, setting it in the sink — "you got it?"

"Yeah," she said, trotting over to the sink to dump the entire pot into the sink, the colander catching the noodles. "Thanks." There was a loud hiss as the hot water met the cold porcelain of the sink. Billows of steam wafted up around her, smelling of noodles. Shaking the colander thrice, she dumped the noodles back into the pot and drizzled oil over them. Lastly, she put a pronged spoon into the pot.

"Where are the dishes?" Steve asked.

"In the cupboard, and the serving dishes are in the bottom cupboard, where you got the colander," she said, pointing both cupboards out to him. Steve hummed, and a few moments later she heard the clinking of plates and glasses being set on the table.

"Here." He placed the two serving dishes next to her. "Silver wear?" he asked.

"Drawer beneath the cupboard where the plates are." Grunting, she hefted the pot full of noodles and transferred them into a glass serving dish. "Do you want some wine?" she asked, spooning globs of stroganoff into another serving bowl.

"Can't get drunk," he said, sounding rueful.

"That's okay" — she picked up the bowl of stroganoff — "I'm not offering wine in an effort to get drunk" — she set the bowl on the table and surveyed the set table. It was quaint and felt awful like a stay-at-home date, all that was missing was a candlelight atmosphere and some sultry jazz, playing low in the background. — "Besides, you can be a wine snob" — she flashed him a grin — "and drink for taste and flavor. Be all posh and proper about it. Drink only the finest wine from the finest grapes from the finest vineyards in France."

He chuckled weakly; she smiled as she went to grab a bottle of Pinot Noir. When she returned, he already served himself and was dishing out a significantly smaller yet still hearty portion for her. "Uh" — he flushed, awkwardly, as if she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar — "I uh… started…"

"It's fine," she said, sitting down after rummaging in the drawer for the corkscrew. Settling the bottle on the table, she took her plate before jabbing the corkscrew into the cork. "Sorry this isn't a French wine" — she twisted the corkscrew, grimacing as the metal dug into her hand — "though California wine isn't bad. Really good actually."

Steve chuckled. The cork came free with a loud pop. "You're talking to a guy who hardly drank because I was a skinny guy and the prohibition was just lifted. So, it's fine." A quirky grin spread across his lips. "I wouldn't be able to tell a good wine from a bad wine. So, I'm fine with whatever you got."

"Well, you'll like this wine," she said, letting the bottle breath while she returned the corkscrew to the drawer. She came back and poured the wine into the two empty wine glasses, the red color reminding her of blood — splashed across the walls and floor, like devilish red paint, bodies of twenty-seven girls at her feet, sticky red on her lips and fingertips, oozing down from her hairline, across her young breasts. It wasn't hers. None of it was. — A little shudder passed through her. The scene felt so romantic, the way they shared an accidental kiss in the photobooth suddenly seemed a bit more intentional than she first thought. The wine trickled as she poured and she could smell the alcohol. Twisting the bottle to stop the drips as she finished poured, she handed him a glass and poured herself one before she sat down.

"Uh… thank you," he said, as he stuck his nose into the glass. "Smells… like wine."

"You're welcome." She chuckled at that, watching him set the glass down and fold his hands in prayer, bowing his head. The simple action caused her to pause, listening to him mutter grace softly, watching him cross himself once he was finished. When he noticed she was watching him, he flushed. "Bon appetite!" she declared, raising her glass. "To good friends."

Steve smiled. "To good friends," he said, and held her gaze as they clinked glasses. It was an tense smoldering gaze, which she found she was unable to hold for too long and dropped it to her food after a few heartbeats. It was easier to focus on stabbing her food with her fork and eating, glad that Steve followed suit. Despite the delicious meal she cooked, he didn't seem to have much of an appetite. They both ate for several minutes, the silence stretching like a warm blanket between them.

A thundering of paws, an excited meow and Liho burst into the room, the tip of her tail twitching, before she darted off to the bedroom at high speed only to turn around and run back into the other end of the apartment. She came back through and this time she ran up the cat tree at such high speed, she shook it until she reached the top. Her pink tongue darted out to clean her nose, before she attacked her tail and whatever imaginary prey she could fathom. "Does she always do that?" Steve asked.

"Usually," she said, sipping at her wine. "Sometimes she does it at three in the morning."

"I'm sorry," he said, "must not get much sleep." Liho let out a loud meow, twisting about before resuming her vicious attack on the edge of the cat tree's top bed. Chuckling, she wrinkled her nose as she watched Liho change tactics and leapt from the cat tree to the couch.

"No," she said, spearing a mushroom and eating it. "It's fine. I sleep plenty." Even with the nightmares that clamor for my attention as soon as I close my eyes.

A enigmatic expression crossed his face as he nodded. "This is very delicious, by the way."

"Thanks" — she beamed — "I'll tell the chef you enjoyed it." Grinning she nudged his knee with her own and gave him a flirty wink. He blushed. "Also, whiskey straight or if you're feeling daring, on the rocks."

"Huh?" his expression was flummoxed, with his laden fork halfway to his mouth; he was adorable in his confusion. It was a good expression on him and she couldn't help but smile (maybe there was a blush creeping into her cheeks but that was just the wine). "I'm sorry" — he lowered his fork to his plate — "but what are we talking about?"

Smiling, she took a long sip of her wine, watching him from beneath her lashes. "What you like to drink. I peg you for a whiskey guy. Though you'll buy beer — bottled, the can stuff tastes like horse piss — because it's cheap."

He chuckled as he resumed eating. "Wow," he said around a bite. "Okay, you got me." He held up his hands in surrender. "I do like a good whiskey, and beer isn't bad." He leaned forward resting his chin in his palm. Natasha shifted, uncomfortable with how he scrutinized her. Liho zoomed passed the dining table again, leaping over the couch like a darting black arrow. "Vodka," he said at last. "Straight from the bottle. Or," he drawled and the sound sent a shiver down her spine, "a dirty vodka martini with extra olives."

She let out a breath, fanning her cheeks (yes, it was definitely the way and not the way he looked at her with those baby blue eyes of his). "You got me," she said, twitching her shoulders a little bit. Liho stopped in the hallway that lead to her bedroom and gave a funny sounding meow before continuing her mad dash around the apartment.

"But?" he asked, waggling his brows. "There's always gotta be a butt somewhere when talking about spirits."

It took her a moment to realize he was making a joke and she frowned. "You know what," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "I'll give you that one, Rogers" — she watched him hide his smile behind his wine glass as he took a sip — "that was rather clever." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Thank you," he said, setting his glass down. "I do enjoy a good battle of wits, especially when I'm _en pointé_." He winked. Gasping, her cheeks surely the same color as the wine; Natasha could do nothing but stare — mouth agape — at the smug look on his face. Swallowing a few more times, she took a few more bites to collect herself.

"Well" — Liho jumped onto the table, almost skidding into the severing dish of noodles — "Liho!" Natasha slammed her hand down on the table, spooking the cat and she bolted, fast and furious to some hidden hidey-hole. Steve chuckled. She took several deep breaths, collecting herself. Her cat reappeared and decided to spend the rest of the evening assessing their meal from the cat tree.

"Handful huh?" he asked, an easy tender smile on his lips. It was the first smile she saw since his panic attack, it reached his eyes.

"Yeah." She pushed her food around on her plate, ignoring the heat in her cheeks (it was definitely the way, she was sure of it) and the fluttering in her stomach. Clearing her throat, she looked at her half-eaten plate and didn't feel hungry anymore. Everything about this was starting to feel _wrong_. She shouldn't be enjoying her time wit him, liking him, falling in lo— no. She wasn't going to go there. He was her mission — her _mark_ — and if the Red Room had indeed sent the Winter Soldier to keep tabs on her then she needed to finish her mission _fast_ and steal whatever Stark and Shield intel she could. The Red Room was not known for its patience. "I'm going to clean up," she said, picking up her plate.

"I'll help." He stood up with her, half-eaten plate in hand.

"Nah" — she shook her head — "keep eating. I can manage." She headed to the kitchen. "After this I'll walk you home. Don't exactly have pj's in your size and I'm sure you rather sleep in your own bed."

Steve gave a rueful laugh. "Feels like I'm lying on a marshmallow, if I'm honest," he said, "which I always am."

She laughed. Nobody was _always_ honest. The only thing you could trust was a dishonest man to keep his dishonesty. And she was a dishonest woman. Still, she smiled as she packed up the leftovers.

"Do you want to take some home?" she asked, when he came over with his cleared plate. "I made enough."

"Sure" — he shrugged — "never say no to offered food."

"Great." Smiling, she put some containers of stroganoff and noodles into a plastic bag, knotting it at the top. Steve had began washing the dishes, whistling an old showtune while he worked. The roles they fell into seemed natural — while she put away things and food and wiped down the countertops and table, he washed and dried the pots and pans — a seamless arrangement of domestication between two people. The smile spread across her face despite herself. "Whatcha whistling?" she asked the tune was slow, yet catchy and she had found herself humming along to it, mapping out how she'd dance to it.

He flushed. "It's nothing," he said, the pot clanging as he put it back into the cupboard. "Just… something I heard" — another nonchalant shrug — "that's all."

"Don't be shy, tell me," she said, nudging him. The blush on his cheeks deepened, spreading its way down his neck. "Steve," she cooed.

"Fine." He looked at his feet before grabbing the last pot. "Promise not to laugh, though?"

"Of course."

"_It's Been a Long, Long Time_," he whispered. "It was that slow song you played… right after I got hurt. I… I like it," he put the pot away. "Kinda feel like it's _our _song."

Natasha swallowed, glad for a moment that Steve wasn't looking at her. The dream she had that day came drifting back upon the memory of cedar and cypress. His strong hands and board shoulders, the way he guided her and made her feel protected. Even now, she still couldn't recall his face. "Oh" — she licked her lips — "leave that stuff Steve," she said, walking over to the cat tree to check Liho's food and water bowls. Full, just as she expected. "Let's go," she said.

"Mm? Oh!" Realization dawned on him. "Right. He grabbed his wallet, stuffing it into his back pocket. "Okay, let's go," he said and she led him out of her apartment.

* * *

The walk to his place was only about fifteen minutes. A few people eyed her — creeps no doubt — but backed off upon catching sight of Steve. His board shouldered frame looked intimidating, especially with his large biceps on display. She didn't even comment on the fact that he had his hand on the small of her back — boldly declaring to the world that she was _his_.

It was a silent walk. The heat of the day trying to dissipate, but the humid air tapped most of it. The allies had a sweet-sour funk of rotting garbage and sirens and car horns could be heard miles away. They drifted from street light to street light; light and shadow washing over them at equal intervals. The visitor parking lot of Steve's building was empty save for one lone car that sat beneath street light, exhaust curling up from the tail pipe, as it idled there in the gloaming. Steve's key got them through the closed lobby door. "Smart," she said as they stepped inside the building.

She followed Steve up the stairs, a dog barking on the second floor as they made their way up to the third one; down the hall and to the left. The key ratcheted home and the door creaked open. In a neat pile by the coat closet were the bags from their shopping trip; she saw Steve grimace at the sight of them. "I'll deal with it later."

"Well," she said, slapping her thighs and rocking on the balls of her feet. "Exciting day" — she yawned — "but I need to get back home. Go to bed."

"Oh." The color left his cheeks. "At this hour? I… well, some people may not… could be dangerous." He fiddled awkwardly with his keys.

"I'm fine. I can handle myself," she said, which was true. She was Black Widow after all. "G'night Steve."

"Wait!" he touched her wrist as she turned. "What if I… asked you to stay?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "After what happened on the subway… I… uh…" he swallowed hard enough that his Adam's apple bobbed. "I don't wanna be alone," he whispered, drawing his shoulders up to try and make himself smaller.

I could kill him while he sleeps, complete my mission. Licking her lips, she closed the door and nodded, brushing some hair from her eyes. "Sure," she said. "I can stay for the night." And when I leave tomorrow, Captain America will be dead.

The smile that lit his face was brilliant as ten thousand blazing suns. "Really? Thank you! I'll go grab a pillow and a blanket. You can have the bed. I'll take the couch."

"Oh, no!" she said. "I'd hate to kick you out of your own bed, Steve. I'm fine on the couch, really." She gave him a disarming smile, stopping him by grabbing his wrist. "It's really no big deal. It's just for one night."

He didn't look convince, but nodded. "Sure," he said, "I'll grab you a shirt. Since you… uh…" he stopped talking, a blush coloring his cheeks. Years of schooling her expression kept her own blush from her cheeks. "Be back in a minute!" he pulled free from her grasp and disappeared down the hall and into his bedroom.

Sighing, she sat down and looked around his apartment. Once again feeling like he merely existed within the space and that it wasn't really his _home_. The boxes that Sharon had brought over this morning were still on the kitchen table. Steve returned moments later with a pillow, a blanket and a shirt. "Here. The bathroom is over there and I well —"

"Thanks Steve. I can manage," she said, watching him flush again.

"Alright. I'm… I'll just uh… go — go to bed… no! Wait, why don't you use the bathroom first. Shower — help yourself to any of my soap, I don't mind — and uh… there's a spare tooth brush in the drawer —" she cut him off with a kiss to his cheek.

"Thanks Steve," she said, "but I shower in the morning." The expression on his face was akin to a deer in the headlights: wide eyed, mouth agape, pupils dilated and his face red as a cherry. Recovering his cleared his throat.

"Me too," he said, his hand coming up halfway to his face before he decided against, curling it into a fist instead and smacking it into the open palm of his other hand. "After my morning run. Great way to start the day." He gave her the dopiest grin. "Good night, sleep well," he said, before heading to his room.

Chuckling, she shucked her sandals and shirt before putting his on. The shirt was well worn, soft with the scent of his cologne still lingering and mingling with the laundry soap he used. Smiling like a shy school girl, she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply the cooling scent of cedar and cypress. Last was her short and bra (his shirt fell to just above her knees). Folding her laundry into a neat pile, she arranged the pillow against the armrest and flopped onto the cushions with the blanket. Settling herself, she scanned the room before flipping off a particular spot. Beating the pillow into submission, she listened to the sounds of the night.

About an hour into her vigil, she was confident that Steve was asleep. Every fiber in her body screamed at her to get up and strangle him — maybe even fuck him and then kill him (just so he wouldn't die a virgin, she wasn't that cruel) — but instead, she found herself relaxing, the tension easing from her muscles and she soon found herself asleep.

She woke with a start a few hours later. It was still dark out, and the apartment was still quiet. Unable to discern what woke her, Natasha got up and looked around the apartment, checking to make sure her bugs were still undetectable and in place. Grabbing her phone, she activated the flashlight feature and went over to the boxes still on Steve's kitchen table. Glancing once towards his room just to make sure he was asleep, she began to unpack the boxes silently.

Most of the first box was memorabilia from WWII and his stage days: action figures, lunch boxes, comics. Photo albums of his tours and the cities he visited, old film reels of his moves. All this stuff had no interest to her and they returned to the box just as quickly as she pulled them out. It was the second box, she found out, that held a treasure trove of information. The shadow box of his medals and the folded flag that had draped his empty coffin. A worn bible and rosary — she flipped it open, noting the names of his parents and what appeared to be family on his mother's side. More photo albums, but with men he served with, a worn picture with the words _Howling Commandos_ written on the back and along with the first initial and last name of the men in the picture: S. Rogers instantly catching her eye. Next came the old notebooks and sketchbooks — S. G. Rogers on the bottom inner front cover of all of them along with the year they were started — filled with cartoonish images of himself, comic strips of little stories he came up with, realistic images of the Howling Commandos and the brutality of war. The softer images were reserved for landscaped and a woman with coiffured hair and a tender yet intense gaze. The detail he took in drawing the woman clearly showed her importance to him, along with a man with dimples in his smile and a clef in his chin. The way he captured the man laughing — she could almost hear the sound, the conversation and whatever joke that caused such laughter.

She almost felt bad — as she closed the book and picked up a stack of letters — for going through his things… almost. The letters were interesting, half of them had doodles on the envelopes, addressed to an _Agent M. E. Carter_, along with a squadron address located in London. The others — in plain envelopes — were addressed to a _Captain S. G. Rogers_ with the platoon unit number he was serving with. She pulled free one of the letters addressed to him and tugged the old delicate stationary out.

_My Darling, _

_ To think that it has been five Christmases that this awful war had lasted, it makes me long for the end. Surely, it must come soon, but I fear our war with the dragon may be an endless one. But let's not talk about such dreadful things, there will be time enough later. _

_ How are you? I hope you are well and are not working too hard or letting Barnes boss you around. You are what my grandmother would call a tender soul, though I think she would have liked you if you had met her. God rest her soul. It's always dreary here, as if the world is tired of war — ha! I say let's not talk about the war, but it seems it's all I think about. Your last cartoon was amusing and they do brighten my day. Even what little Christmas cheer there is to go around perks me up. Hopefully, darling, you can rotate back over here in time for Christmas and we can spend some time together (I may even go dancing, just to celebrate). _

_ I hope this letter reaches you in good health. I myself am well, though I sorely miss you and your smile. Godspeed. _

_M. _

_ December 23, 1943_

Natasha swallowed and stuffed the letter back into its envelope. The woman — M — loved him. There was a tenderness to her words and a longing for him to return from wherever he was. Shaking her head, she pulled one addressed to Agent Carter out. Smiling at the doodles cluttering the margins, she began to read.

_My dearest, _

_ I'm sorry I was unable to make it back for Christmas, but rest assured you were in my thoughts and prayers over the Christmas season. _

_ The boys teased me __—__ good naturally I assure you __—__ about our not so secret romance. Especially Bucky. I think he's happy for me. That I finally found a dame __—__ I mean woman __—__ that looks at me with such affection. Lord only knows how many times he's tried to get a pretty dame __—__ woman __—__ to dance with me. I think he felt it was his duty that I at least had someone special in my life and he's glad that I do now. _

_ Fighting along side the Greeks is an interesting experience. They have dubbed me Herakles after their hero due to my strength. It's flattering. Their leader they have nicknamed Leonidas, after the legendary king of Sparta. (They have dubbed Dugan Dionysus due to his love of drink). _

_ Once the war is over, we must return to Greece. There is so much I want to show you here and the people are kind and generous. Though I don't let myself entertain thoughts of after the war. At least I try not… though, a house on a quiet street in Brooklyn with you is a dream that lulls me to sleep at night. Anyway, don't want to get my hopes up. I still worry about the Blitz and you. God, I wish I was there to keep you safe, but we have dragons to slay and I'm the only knight around. Plus, you aren't exactly like a princess in a fairy tale. I say more like an Amazon princess __—__ Hippolyte, as the Greeks have dubbed you. Until we're reunited after the war. _

_ Forever yours, _

_ Captain_

_ January 16, 1944_

_ PS: No cartoon this time, the flyboy was anxious to get going, so Ii had to rush. _

Natasha sat back against the chair, a lump in her throat, tears burning at the corner of her eyes. He had a life, a developing romance with a woman he seemed to care deeply about. Hell, he was even toying with the idea of a future with her after the war: the house and white picket fence, the idyllic American dream she had heard so much about. And then he lost it all. She pulled another letter from the stack.

_My dearest, _

_ Wow. Spokane sure is something else. Kinda surreal actually. I can't believe I'm in Bing Crosby's hometown; you know, my momma loved Bing Crosby; loved his voice and songs. Always had him going on the radio. I got to meet him at the Clemmer Theater and have a picture with him. He even preformed at my shows with me. Swell guy, wish Momma was still alive __—__ God rest her soul __—__ so she could see the picture. _

_ Spokane is small compared to Brooklyn. Less people, but just as alive. I can see mountains and smell fresh air. I don't know if I could ever leave Brooklyn or the East Coast, but I wouldn't mind living in Spokane. The people here are hardworking and friendly. _

_ We changed the show up a little bit; got a new character since we're on the West Coast: Prime Minister Hideki Tojo. Crowds go wild whenever I punch him and Hitler. Feel bad for their actors though. One night some hooligans almost started a fight because I was having some drinks with Robby (he plays Hitler) and Larry (he plays Tojo). We were still in cotume, so I guess I can understand __—__ Can't have Captain America being friendly with Hitler and Tojo __—__ but it was awkward. The director told us not to go out in costume anymore. _

_ Our next stop is Hollywood. Can you believe it, dearest? I'm going to Hollywood! Gonna start filming some movies. Wonder if I'll get a chance to meet Clark Gable or Audrey Hepburn. Shucks, Bucky would love a chance to meet Audrey Hepburn __—__ he has a huge crush on her. Hopefully Ii can get her autograph for him or maybe a signed photo with her. _

_ Still… I wish I was over there serving my country like a real soldier. Feel like a dancing monkey in tights. There's talk of taking the tour to Europe later, maybe next year. Depends on how well it goes here at home. I seem to have a pretty packed schedule. Hope this letter finds you in good health. I miss you. _

_ Forever yours, _

_ Steve_

_ October 19, 1942_

Natasha couldn't help but smile at the letter. Steve sounded so hopeful… almost whimsical that he was rubbing elbows with legendary stars. Even growing up in the Red Room, she had heard of Bing Crosby and Audrey Hepburn. She pulled another letter from the stack.

_My darling, _

_ To hear that you are well and at least enjoying seeing the country, it warms my heart. It still saddens me to know that you have been reduced to little more than a cog in the American propaganda machines. The good doctor never wanted this for you or his creation. But I supposed men still see what they want and do what they will. _

_ I don't know if you'd be pleased or bothered but we have seen some of your films. I must say you… I mean this with utmost affection… aren't the best actor. Of course, these are your earlier films, and I do imagine your newer ones are much better. Darling, I implore you though, don't consider acting as a career for after the war. _

_ As for me, we still search for the dragon and its main head, but alas, we have shoddy intelligence and our eagles have remained silent. Hopefully soon, though. _

_ Though I do have one request for us after the war, since you seem to enjoy traveling. We must go to Paris. My grandmother vacationed there and she told me that Paris during her childhood was a marvelous jewel in Europe. I went there once or twice before the war and while it wasn't the Paris of the Belle __É__poque like she remembered, it still was a scintillating city. Oh my darling, Paris is the most beautiful city in all of Europe. Even with this dreadful war, it's still beautiful. Paris remains stalwart and proud despite Nazis occupying her and the French Resistance helps us to eventually liberate her. So, after the war, darling, we'll go and I'll show you the city that has captured my imagination. Until we're reunited. Godspeed. _

—_M. _

_ November 20, 1942_

It hurt Natasha to know that they were tentatively planning things for after the war. Maybe — she hoped — ne day Steve will get to Paris. Despite the potential trip being bittersweet for him. To know that he never got to see the city, broke her heart a little bit. The sky was still dark, though she could tell dawn was an hour or two away. "Okay," she whispered, "one more." She pulled out a letter. This had a certain weight to it. The letter was addressed to Carter, but it lacked Steve's signature doodles. She pulled the stationary out.

_Dearest, _

_ My heart is heavy. Day before yesterday we joined up with the 4__th__ Armored Division and the 89__th__ Infantry to liberate Ohrdruf. The locals told us of this camp and how there is always smoke rising from it and the smell of charred flesh. Nothing could prepare us for what we found. _

_ Gaunt pale faces, men and women who were nothing more than skin and bone. At first they were afraid of us, shying away when the tanks rolled in. Their Nazi overlords fleeing as we moved in. Then one recognized my shield and a cry went up: The American! The American!_

_ It echoed through out the camp; they trusted us, we saved them. _

_ Dearest, I close my eyes and still see their faces. I've seen death, dead boys that should have never left home but… by all that is holy, if God is a loving Father in Heaven, why did He allow such barbarism to happen?_

_ It gets worst dearest, much worse. The following day, one word from one fo the liberated prisoners we went to another camp. It had our dragon's mark… My God __—__ my hand's shaking, I don't think I can't write… _

_ … I'm sorry. I threw up. The inhumanity I witness, what the dragon has been doing to the men they don't send to their manufacturing camps __—__ what that doctor has done to them! Almost makes Hitler and Mengele look tame! I'm glad you aren't here to see this… horror, dearest It shakes my faith in God and all that is good to its core. _

_ The one bright spot in all of this carnage: We have a lead. We got word from one of the prisoners that our doctor will be on a train in the Alps. We left Eisenhower and are making all haste to the Alps in hopes of cutting off one head. _

_ I love you. _

_—__Forever yours, _

_ Captain _

_ April 7, 1945_

Natasha felt sick, the acidic taste of bile ticked the back of her throat. She knew Hydra had done human experiments, but to know that what Dr. Armin Zola had done to people would end up making Dr. Josef Mengele (the Angel of Death) look tame… her stomach wanted to rebel at the thought.

A knock broke the silence. "Steve?" a woman called from the door. Natasha jumped, gathering up the letters. "Steve, I'm letting myself in," the woman said and a key slid into the lock. "Fury wants me to drop these reports off with you, have you look over them."

Natasha was surprised Steve hadn't woken up, having taken him for a light sleeper. The door opened to reveal his neighbor: Sharon.

Getting to her feet and clutching the letters to her chest, she stared at the blonde woman. Animosity sizzled between them as Sharon quietly closed the door behind her. "Natasha," she said, her tone a tad icy. She took a few steps and tossed the files onto the coffee table. There, in plain view was the Shield file on her — she wondered if Sharon had looked through it. "What a surprise." She frowned; Natasha shifted the letters. "What are you doing here?"

Shrugging, she bent down to organize the letters back into a respectable pile. Placing them on top of the sketchbook. "Steve asked me to stay," she said, standing to face Sharon. The other woman came closer, a distrustful gleam in her narrowed eyes.

"So, you thought it was okay to go through his _private_ things?" Sharon flipped one of the flaps of the box, a fine brow arched. For her part, Natasha pursed her lips and set the letters down on the kitchen table. The two women stared at each other in the darkness, the sounds fo the night — the running refrigerator, a siren in the distance the barking of the dog on the second floor, the creak of the floorboards from the apartment above — broke the intense hostile silence between them.

Spy assessing spy.

Neither moved and neither blinked; a silent battle of wills. Sharon broke first, and Natasha couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Don't flatter yourself," Sharon hissed.

"I'm not."

"Who are you?" Sharon asked, a tight smile plastered on her face. "I don't believe Steve gave us a proper introduction."

"Natasha Rushman," she said. "I'm his dance teacher and also work as Pepper Potts' personal assistant."

Sharon's smile didn't falter and by the look she gave, Natasha suspected the woman wanted to say something biting but refrained. She also figured that Sharon hadn't read the Shield file on her — _yet_. "I'm surprised Steve let his _dance teacher_ stay the night."

The sneer in Sharon's tone cut deeper than it should. Still, she was Black Widow and Agent 13 was way out of her depth. "I'm also his friend."

"Huh." Sharon scratched at a spot on the box flap.

Before either woman could say anything further there was a low moan, like a wounded animal. The sound came from Steve's room and both women froze, staring at the dark hallway.

The moaning built in volume, and it was the heart wrenching sound of a man gutted by the terror of his own mind. A loud squeak followed every few seconds as Steve shifted about, muttered no's punctuating in between the squeaks.

"Nat… Natasha… Natasha!" Steve cried. Sharon's gaze slid over to her and she swallowed, torn. "Natasha… Natasha… Natasha!"

She swallowed, unsure what to do, how to play this. Blood drained from her face and she gripped the back of the chair. Steve was still calling for her and the plaintive cry tugged at her heart. "Aren't you going to go to him?" Sharon asked. "You're his friend."

Licking her lip, she looked at the other woman. Steve gave a loud cry and everything inside her broke. The icy rush of Black Widow overcoming her. With a glare at Sharon, she walked passed the other woman — making sure to bump into her.

Sharon grabbed her wrist. Natasha snarled, twisting but Sharon was quick, grabbing her other wrist. "Prove me wrong," she challenged. Natasha pulled free, staring at Sharon for several long heartbeats. Another squeak from the bed and a whimper broke their stare off. Natasha pulled free from Sharon's grip and gathered up her clothes — surreptitiously moving her file beneath them. She pulled on her shorts and sandals, grabbing her shirt, bra and phone. Giving Sharon one last venomous glower before leaving Steve's apartment.

* * *

The night was muggy and the car was still in the parking lot, still idling as the drive waited. She ignored it, walking in the direction of her apartment. A few blocks away from Steve's place, her phone rang. Nobody was around, the dark alley was to her right, the street to her left. She slipped into the shadows. The screen illuminated her face and the number was Russian. Hitting the green answer button, she brought the phone to her ear. "Da?"

"Otchet?" came the reply, a woman's cool dispassionate voice. Natasha swallowed watching a taxi putter along, sitar music drifting out the open window.

"V khode vypolneniya," she replied. Another car rumbled by, a dark color with dark tinted windows. There was a pause on the other end of the phone. She waited.

Zimniy Soldat v igre. Zavershite suoyu missiyu, Chernaya Vdova, inache Zimniy Soldat vypolnit svoyu," the robotic woman said. Natasha swallowed, her other hand trembling and clutched her clothes and file closer.

"Ponyal."

"Otlichno Obnovleniye statusa cherez tri nedeli." There was a click and the line went dead. Standing there, Natasha lowered the phone, staring at the screen. Another car went by, this one from the parking lot of Steve's building. The windows were rolled down, though no music drifted out from the car. She caught a glimpse of the drive.

Their eyes met and for a heartbeat she was back in Odessa, covering the physicist.

A metallic bang echoed behind her and a cat yowled in fright. She jerked, blinking once and the car was already rumbling down the street. Letting out the breath she didn't realize she was holding, Natasha took several step backs until her back hit the alleyway. The dawn was breaking in the east, a slate color began to tint the sky and after several moments she glanced down at the file she held. Shifting her shirt and bra to the crook of her arm she flipped it open. There were two pictures of her: her Red Room agent picture and a more candid shot from where she couldn't discern. Below that was her name: Romanova, Natalia Alianovna. Code Name: Black Widow. After her name was her date of birth — blacked out, along with several other pieces of general information about her: sex, hair color, eye color, race, height and weight. The list of her so-called crimes and Shield's assessment of her potential risk to national security (they deemed it extremely high). Skipping a line, she read a name — Barton, Clinton Francis "Clint". Code Name: Hawkeye — before steeling herself for the solution Shield at deemed for necessary to neutralize a threat like her.

Termination.

* * *

**Oh boy. **

**I want to apologize for taking over a **_**month**_** to get this chapter done. I always want to send a huge thank you to my loyal readers who stuck with this story and flooded me with kudos and reviews. Working nights has made it rough for me to write steadily, but I've managed to find a way around this! I write long hand, but its still hard to get time on the computer because I have only one day to cram everything in and I can only manage to write for like an hour in the morning before my mom gets ansty with me for not being up and ready by ten. So thank you loyal readers, for waiting. **

**As you can see the plot is thickening and things are starting to happen. Also, the Russos and the writers can pry "It's Been a Long, Long Time" from my cold dead hands. That song has always been the song Nat taught Steve to dance to. If you are gonna be one of those sticklers, you can go leave. **

**Save an author; leave a review. **


	10. X

**MCU (c) Marvel Studios**

* * *

The pink light of dawn was at his back. Already the air was starting to get warm, heralding a muggy miserable summer day ahead. Steam billowed up from the vents around him, obscuring his presences on the roof. Looking through the telescopic scope attached to his bow, he lined up his shot. "Hawkeye to Aerie, got a clear shot, permission to take it?" he asked, drawing the bowstring to his ear. Slowly, he inhaled and exhaled, watching the red-haired woman on the phone with her black cat in her lap. There was static in his ear.

"Hawkeye, this is Aerie. Permission granted," the woman's voice said.

A heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three.

The sun was rising, the slate paling into a gentle blue, the pink fading to new-day gold. The arrow didn't fly. The woman was stared blankly into space — tear tracks glistening on her cheeks — the phone at her feet and the cat in her arms. Clint relaxed, slowly releasing the tension from the bowstring and lowering his weapon. The woman looked so lost. So alone. In a way she reminded him of his daughter and a bit of himself before Coulson found him. "Hawkeye? Do you have confirmed kill?" Maria Hill asked in his ear. Clint swallowed, wiping his brow as he stood up, putting the arrow back in his quiver. "Hawkeye?"

"I'm here," he said, touching the ear piece. A pigeon landed on the ledge cooing as it shuffled along, fat and grey, blinking a beady black eye at him. He never had a problem with eliminating a target before. This woman — Black Widow — was a threat to national security, and to the life of his friend — Steve Rogers. Two more pigeons joined the first on the ledge, cooing and preening their feathers, watching him with mild disinterest.

"Do you have a confirmed kill?" Hill asked. Clint swallowed, watching the pigeons watch him, before looking at the Black Widow in her apartment. Something had stayed his hand. A pigeon cooed and then launched itself into the air, vanishing into the light of the rising sun.

There was silence in his ear, and then: "What do you mean you lost the shot?" Hill asked, as he backed away from the ledge. It was tempting to turn off the earpiece, let Hill fume and deal with Fury later. This would only delay his ass chewing though, and the Black Widow's death. Frowning, Clint went back to the ledge and peered at the woman again. He removed the scope from his bow and zoomed in on her shirt. The old SSR logo was emblazon on her chest.

Clint felt his blood run cold as realization dawned on him. Backing away, he ran towards the door of the roof. He had to get to Steve's place, had to tell him — warn him. "Fucking shit," he grumbled, throwing the door open and jumping down the stairs. How cold he have missed this! How could all of the Avengers miss this! And Sharon was supposed to be guarding Steve! Clint paused, chest heaving as he listened to the creaks and groans of the building's interior. "This turned out to be leg day," he grumbled, rubbing his thighs before continuing his mad dash down the stairs. For a moment he thought about calling her but figured it was better not to. A good spy appeared harmless to all that she encountered. It was spy-craft 101, and the Black Widow was nothing but the best spy in the world. So, it should have come as no surprise that she slipped right under everyone's noses — well, except Fury's. Then again, Clint was convinced that the man had eyes in the back of his head, X-ray vision and some form of telepathy. "Hill?" Clint asked, once he was in the lobby of the building. Early rises milled about, the night shift yawned as they waited for their reliefs. Boldly, he walked across the shiny tile floor, nobody looking twice at the fact he had a collapsible and quiver strapped to his back. Not even the droopy eyed security guard leaning against the wall by the door. "Hill, you read me?" he asked as he excited the hotel.

"I read you. Care to explain what you mean —"

"Does Steve know?" he looked around, trying to get his bearings as he scanned the skyline for something familiar. Now he wished he'd taken Steve up on his offer to show him Brooklyn. The sun was hidden behind the taller buildings, the air here was still early morning cool and grey, with just the beginning hints of the coming heat of the day. The droopy eyed security guard started to wake up from his doze; a few cars drove by and there was a flock of pigeons cooing on the side walk.

"Does Steve know what?" Hill asked. Clint started walking, scattering the pigeons into flight and obscuring the security guard's line of sight. "Barton, answer me?"

Clint ground his teeth as he wove through the slowly growing crowd on the sidewalks. The streets would be packed with cars by the next hour. New York was starting to wake up and even though he was a guy with a bow, he wasn't the weirdest thing New Yorkers have seen since aliens showed up last month. "Don't bullshit me, Maria! Does Rogers know about Black Widow?" he hissed, ducking into an alley that would allow him to reach Steve's apartment complex quicker. Hill was silent in his ear. "Maria?" he asked, fearing he lost the connection as he side stepped a puddle. He didn't need to be washing whatever ick from his shoes.

"Fury sent him a file." There was a pause. "I'm sorry Clint."

"Damn it!" Clint scrubbed his face, before reentering the crowd. "So… he knows about everything. The plot to kill him, her infiltrating Star Industries—"

"What do you mean she's infiltrated Stark Industries?" Hill asked. Sighing, he stepped out of the stream of people, pressing up against the wall. This is why he liked leather. It was easier to clean than clothe and more durable to boot. "Barton?"

"I was at the Tower yesterday, Pepper has a new assistant. A Natalie somebody or other, but it's her — Black Widow. Name's different, but I never forget a face."

"Shit. This is new. We didn't know about it. See if you can get the file from Rogers' place."

"And Stark?" Clint asked. Tony may be an ass but he didn't deserve to have his entire livelihood come crashing to the ground.

"Keep him in the dark," Hill said, "he's not affiliated with Shield."

"Like hell he isn't! He's an Avenger!" Clint snapped, forcing a smile when a young woman gave him a hard look. It was best if he continued making his way towards Steve's place, people didn't think twice about people yelling at the space in front of them as they walked. "The Avengers — _including_ Stark — saved New York last month. At least you owe him a debt of gratitude." A car blared its horn as another one tore down the street, screeching as it did so. It was going to be that type of day, when people just seemed to do stupid things because the moon was full or there was a certain zest of madness in the air. "He deserves to know."

"I'll ask Fury."

Her evasive answer, her passive tone, it boiled he's blood. "So, you're just going to use Tony as bait?" he snapped. "Is that it?"

"If we can—"

"That's low," he snapped, make a right down the street towards Steve's apartment. "Even for Fury!"

"You don't make the calls here, _Agent_."

"Neither do you, _Agent_." Two can play at this game. If Fury wasn't going to tell Tony about Black Widow, then he will. And if Fury was going to manipulate Steve…

"You have your orders."

Never been one to follow orders. "This is bullshit Hill, and you know it. Tony already doesn't trust Shield much and now—"

"— my hands are tied Clint! Ill talk to Fury, see if we can't lay a trap or something."

It wasn't a good solution, but it was all he had given him. Beggars can't be choosers. "Fine. I'll get the file." He smashed the silver button for the crosswalk sign.

"Keep Rogers out of it though," Hill said. He clenched his teeth. "Until you hear from Fury. That's an order."

"And if he's already read the file?" he asked. "Want me to lie to him? Tell him it's all bullshit? Steve may have old fashion sensibilities, but he's not stupid. And it's high time we stop treating him like he's some dumb country hick." Hill didn't answer. Swearing in Mongolian, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll tell him it's bullshit or something if he's already read it. Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Bye." He switched the earpiece off, the crosswalk flashed the walk sign and he headed towards Steve's apartment.

* * *

It was like watching a bad romcom. The girlfriend leaves when the other woman shows up, leaving the other woman (always the boyfriend's ex or potential secondary love interest) alone with the boyfriend unaware. Sharon hated those movies, feeling that they had too many unrealistic and ridiculous clichés. But that is what this situation felt like as she sat there on Steve's bed, holding him as he calmed down. He hadn't said much, just asked once or twice for Natasha, before going quiet, his head on her lap. Dawn seeped it's way into his bedroom, dust motes dancing in the aureate light. The tension was finally starting to leave his shoulders and she felt herself relaxing as well. "Do you want me to close the curtains so you can try to go back to sleep?" she asked, running her hand through his hair. She found it surprising that his hair was so soft.

"No," he mumbled, "don't think I can." He gave her knee a squeeze. "Thanks though."

"Have you talked to a doctor —"

"They're just nightmares Sharon" — he rolled his head off her lap and back into his pillow, pulling the spare on close. The downy scent of feathers puffed up and filled the space between them. — "Don't need a doctor. Don't want a doctor."

Sharon frowned; watching his side rise and fall with each breath. "You know there's no shame in admitting that you're having trouble sleeping," she said. "It's not how it was back then, people don't judge you for have a mental illness—"

"So, I'm sick now?" he glanced over his shoulder at her. "Sick in the head?" he snapped. "Just because I have some nightmares now and then? Just because I had a fit on the subway?"

When she first joined Shield, she had a brief stint in the psychology department. It was an eye-opening experience, seeing men — many of them former soldiers, Marines or special ops — frustrated that they can no longer comprehend the world as they used to, that little things will trigger memories or certain types of emotions, that they are afraid of hurting their spouses and they crawl into the bottle to numb the sensations. Many reported nightmares and feeling anxious in certain situations. Loud noises too, seemed to be a common them among them. She told Peggy about one particular session with a grizzled old commander, who's father served in WWII. How his dad was a mean drunk and never talked about the war. Aunt Peggy had tsked her tongue and shook her head, lamenting how many soldiers from the war may have returned home with PTSD but because it was unmanly to admit such weakness, many sought help in other ways. There was still a certain amount of machoism surrounding soldiers and their attitudes towards mental health. "Steve, I'm not saying —"

"I don't need a headshrinker, Sharon. I'm fine." He tugged the sheet up to his shoulder. "Just wanna be alone right now."

But you aren't fine, Steve. Sighing, Sharon stood and patted his shoulder before wandering to the living room. The letters were still on the kitchen table. Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she gathered up the letters, putting the delicate paper back into the envelopes and bundling them with a rubber band. She put away Steve's old sketchbooks and the phot albums Natasha had taken out. "Damn," she muttered, running a hand through her hair before heading to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It surprised her that Steve even had coffee in his apartment, yet, there was a can of Folgers and some coffee filters. The coffee pot didn't look like it got much use though. Still, she filled the machine with water and set it to a strong brew after adding two scoops of ground coffee. This wasn't how she figured she'd start her day. It almost felt wrong to do it, but she did it once before — Aunt Peggy ended up forgiving her. Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contacts until she found the name. A quick glance in the direction of Steve's room gave her the confidence to tap the call icon next to the name and number in the contacts' list. The phone rang for a few seconds before it was answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey Sam," she said, tucking her free arm beneath her breasts and leaning against the counter top. The coffee maker gurgled a moment before coffee — fresh and heady — began to trickle into the pot.

"Sharon, haven't heard from you n a while. When are you coming back to DC? We should catch up."

"Dunno. My assignment is in New York, but speaking of that I have a favor to ask."

"Shoot."

"Do you think you can come up here for a few days? Or a few weeks. However long it'll take. Got a friend who may have PTSD."

"But said friend won't go see a doc?" She could hear the sigh in Sam's voice. "Thinks he doesn't need one. That he's fine."

"Bingo."

This time he actually did sigh into the receiver. "Sharon, I'm just a counselor. I'm not a doctor. I can't—"

"— I know, Sam. But maybe that's all he needs. Someone to talk to. And if that's the case then… isn't that a good thing?" The coffee maker made another gurgle as the water percolated through the filter and grounds.

"Yeah, but—"

"Please. It's just that he's hurting and it hurts me seeing him like this."

There was a pause. "I'm happy for you, Sharon. I know… I know losing Riley was rough, especially for you —"

"— It was rough for both of us, Sam. We may have dated but he always saw you as a brother." She opened the cupboard and pulled out two cups. She didn't know how Steve liked his coffee, but considering he was from the Depression era — if he drank coffee, he drank it black.

"Right" — a sigh — "Fine. I'll come up today. My mom'll be happy to have me for a bit. I'll just tell the VA here that I have a family emergency or something. Probably be up around lunch. I'll see you soon Sharon."

"Thanks. I'll see you soon."

"Uh-huh. Text me the address to wherever you wanna meet in about two hours or so or I'll text you. Oh! And before I forget, who is this new squeeze of yours?"

She blushed. "He's not — it's not like that Sam. We're just friend."

"Yeah, sure. That's what everyone says at first. Name."

Sighing, she rubbed her eyes. The coffee maker beeped at her, announcing that it was done. Pulling out the pot, she poured two cups and shoved the pot back into the machine. "Steve Rogers," she said.

The other end of the line went quiet. "Steve Rogers? As in _the_ Steve Rogers? Captain —"

A knock on the door caused her to pull her phone from her ear. "Hello?" she called out. The knock sounded again, and she went over to the door and peered through the peephole. Eyes widening in surprise, she opened it to reveal Clint. "Sam, I gotta go," she said, putting her phone back to her ear.

"No! Sharon, you don't just get to tell me you're _dating_ Captain America and —" she cut him off by ending the call. Smiling, she shoved her phone into her back pocket and waved Clint in.

"Hey, I'm… surprised to see you. What are you doing here?" she asked, closing the door once he was inside. Clint looked around. It only then occurred to her how _neat_ Steve's apartment was. As if he hardly lived in it or if he did, it was merely existing within the space. The realization made her sad for him.

"Is that coffee?" Clint asked, walking into the kitchen and taking the cup she had set aside for Steve and pouring a cup. The archer took a long sip. "Hot! Hot!" he hissed. "But so good." He gave her a shiteater grin. "And as for what I'm doing here? Can't I just want to see a friend?" He blew on his coffee before taking another sip. "Why is it always _what are you up to_ with you Carter?"

"Beats me" — Sharon shrugged, walking over to him and grabbing her cup — "you were always a shifty one. Don't think I haven't forgotten."

"Your aunt liked me." He flashed her a grin and went back to drinking his coffee.

She gave him a one shoulder shrug. "Aunt Peggy always had a thing for knuckle-headed blonds with moxie." She blew on her coffee before taking a sip. It was warm and bitter; she set the cup down and opened the fridge — it was well stocked considering how often Steve ate. Mostly fresh fruits and vegetables. A few cases of meat (pork and chicken since those meats were cheap) — and grabbed the milk. A splash of it into her coffee, followed by a quick hunt through Steve's cupboards until she found the sugar and added two heaping teaspoons to her coffee. Sighing, she took another sip, smiling at the sweet milky taste that counterbalanced the bitter coffee.

"You think you have enough sugar in there?" Clint asked.

"Shut it, Barton," she said. He arched a brow. "Why are you here, for real."

"Mission in the area" — he looked around Steve's apartment, and gave a low whistle — "glad to know Shield's interior design department is just shitty and it's not just me."

Sharon snorted, flicking her gaze in the direction of Steve's room when she heard a door close. "It's not that bad." Clint laughed. "It's not! So —"

"— It's like two teenagers went to IKEA and tried to act like their grandparents," Clint said. "C'mon Sharon! None of this stuff feels like _him_. It's all cookie-cutter assembly regulations and bullshit."

She couldn't help but look around the room, taking note of the stock and trade furniture that Shield had picked out for Steve. When faced with the start reality of it, she had to admit that Clint was right. There was very few personal touches around the place. Again, it felt as if Steve merely existed within the space oppose to actually living in it. Almost as if Steve was afraid to commit to this time period — as if committing or even acknowledging the 21st Century, it would finalize the fact that he can never go back home. "I'll… I'll work on that with him," she muttered, taking a long sip of her coffee. "But why are you here? Shouldn't you be going home if your mission is over?"

"Oh" — Clint finished off his coffee and poured himself another cup, he glanced over his shoulder when he heard the door to Steve's room open and then closed — "I'm here to pick up a file on Black Widow. Hill said you dropped some files off for Steve to look at today. Some details need to be fixed." Clint cradled the cup in one hand, shoving the other into his pocket. Sharon nodded, walking over to get the file.

The files were on the coffee table where she left them last night when she confronted Natasha. A small sigh escaped her, as she fanned them out on the table as she looked for the one labeled _Black Widow_. "Huh?" she frowned. The other files were there: a woman by the name of Ophelia Sarkissian going by the code name of Viper, a red haired woman claiming to be the granddaughter of Johann Schmidt and going by the name Sin, a Russian KGB agent by the name of Alexi Shostakov with the code name Red Guardian (she remembered her aunt mentioning the Red Guardian program as Russia's answer to Project Rebirth, but as far as she knew the Russians weren't successful in creating their own super soldier). But there was no file on the Black Widow. "That sneaky bitch!" Sharon slammed her hand down on top of the files. "That sneaky conniving bitch!"

Clint looked up from pouring himself a third cup of coffee. "What?" he frowned.

"She took her file!"

"Black Widow… she was here?" Clint's eyes grew wide as he walked over to look at the files with Sharon. He pushed them around too, confirming what she had already told him. "Why was she here in Steve's apartment?" He paled. "Is Steve —"

"— Fine" — Still she glanced in the direction of his room. It looked like the door was open again, as sunlight filled the hall — "Just a bit surly because he had a nightmare and she — Black Widow — wasn't there to play mommy nurse maid for him." Sharon ran a hand through her hair. "Fuck."

"Why… why would Steve —"

"Because I think he's in love with her. But he doesn't know she's an assassin trying to kill him!" She rubbed her face. Clint gave a low whistle. "He event old my aunt that this… Natasha was his muse."

"So, he's in… deep?" Clint arched a brow and took another sip of his coffee. "You make a good cup of coffee, by the way."

"Oh" — she gave a little smile — "thanks."

"Do you think we should tell him?" Clint asked, arching a brow. "Or do you think he heard us?"

"I don't think—"

"Tell me what?" Steve asked, finishing threading his belt as he walked up to them. Clint checked the coffee maker, pouring the rest of the coffee into his empty cup and making another pot. She was left to answer Steve's question. "What are you two whispering about?" he added.

"Oh, nothing," she said, "right Clint?"

"It wasn't nothing, Sharon," Clint said, throwing a grin over his shoulder. "We were discussing your birthday. It's in what—"

"— two weeks," Steve said, "and that it wasn't what it sounded like. I heard Natasha and Black Widow. So, I want to know —"

"We were discussing your birthday, Steve," Sharon said, before Steve could press Clint for more information. Damn Steve and his super soldier hearing! Of course, she should have realized that even if she and Clint had whispered everything, Steve would still probably have heard everything. His hearing was acute enough to hear a man breathing in the trees, a whispered conversation in his own apartment would have been child's play for him. "Just as Clint said."

It was clear to her that Steve didn't believe her, but let it slide. "You made coffee?" he asked, going over to the cupboard and getting a cup. "Thanks." He nodded at Clint.

"Well, she made the first pot, I drank most of it, so I'm making a fresh pot." Clint sipped his coffee. "And I'm sure your birthday will be a blast. Tony will probably through you a grand ol' party."

"Don't really feel like celebrating it anyway," he said, going over to the fridge and pulling out an orange; digging his thumb into the rind and peeling the orange. There was a bitter note in his voice that didn't go amiss by her or Clint.

"Don't say that Steve," she said, going over to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. He arched a brow as he worked a wedge of orange free and popped it into his mouth. "I know it's not… not… I know we aren't the people you would rather be celebrating with, but… but we still care about you."

"Yeah, Cap. I know Tony is… a bit — okay, a lot — egocentric, but he wants you to be happy just as much as the next person. So, it's not your old war buddies, but look at it this way, you'll be celebrating with your _new_ war buddies!" Clint said, grinning as he poured Steve a cup of coffee. "Milk, sugar or both?"

"Black," he said, popping another orange slice into his mouth. "Learned to drink coffee in the Army. You drank it black or not at all." He accepted the cup. "Thanks."

Clint drowned the rest of his coffee. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat" — he yawned, stretching his back and shoulders — "but I gotta drive ahead of me and I want to beat rush hour."

Steve snorted. "Rush hour? There's always rush hour in New York." He sipped his coffee and worked another slice of orange free with his thumb.

"Point taken, but it's not so bad _now_. Gotta helluva drive ahead of me." Clint said. He gave them a cheery wave. "See ya Steve. Sharon."

"Later," she said, Steve gave him an acknowledging nod as Clint left. She glanced at Steve. It was hard to imagine her aunt knew Steve before the serum or even picture Steve as anything other than the man before her but watching him look out the window — Sharon could almost imagine it.

"Hey," she said, setting her cup down and slipping her fingers into the pockets of her jeans. He gave a hum, quirking a brow and glanced at her. "Later today I want you to meet a friend of mine. He's driving up from DC. We'll get lunch." She licked her lip.

"So… you're just not gonna mention the fact you and Clint had a secret conversation in the apartment of a super soldier?" Steve said, taking a sip of coffee. "I can hear really well."

She flushed. "Clint and I were discussing Shield stuff, Steve. You are technically not apart of Shield yet. So, it's classified."

"Should've discussed it somewhere I couldn't hear." He pulled another slice of orange free. "And you're wrong about Natasha. She's a good person."

Rubbing her face, she let out a breath because she didn't want to have this conversation with him. Not now. Not ever. "My friend works for the VA down in DC."

"Uh-huh."

"Helps vets that suffer from PTSD" — Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes and pushing himself away from the counter to go sit at the kitchen table. — "Steve don't be like that."

"I don't have PTSD!"

"I'm not saying that you do —"

"— then why this friend?"

She met his gaze and saw a lifetime of pain behind them. "Because if you won't talk to me or Tony or anyone here then maybe you'll talk to my friend, Sam. He's a vet. He understands loss, regret. What it's like—"

"— no he doesn't!" Steve snapped, smacking the table. There was a crack and for a moment she feared he broke the table, but the wood held firm. "Was he frozen for seventy years? Did he woke up removed from everything and everyone he had ever known?"

"No, Steve — and I'm not saying that he'll—"

"Did he watch his best friend die, helpless to do anything to stop it?" Tears trickled down his cheeks. "Does he blame himself for that?"

Her own tears choked her. Just thinking about Sam calling her, telling her what happened to Riley, was almost too much. "Yes," she said, taking a seat opposite Steve. "He does. Sam may not have been frozen for seventy years but he knows pain, loss, regret… guilty. Don't judge him before you met him." She grabbed his hand, squeezing his fingers. "All I want is for you to meet him. Talk to him. You need a friend in this time Steve. And maybe the Avengers aren't the best match for you but—"

"I have Natasha," he said, pulling his hand away. "She's my friend."

Sharon bit her tongue. All the things she wanted to tell him about Natasha, to point out that the woman abandoned him when he needed her the most, that she snooped through his things, read his private letters to Peggy. If only Steve would accept that the woman, he was infatuated with — because that's what it was: infatuation. — was just a ruse she was using to get close to him so she could kill him. "Steve."

He looked at her for a long moment and she feared he'd say something, but then he sighed, shoulders sagging. "Okay," he said, "I'll meet him."

"That's all I ask," she whispered, wiping her tears away. It was best if he didn't know about Natasha. There was no way to know how much he heard of her conversation with Clint, but if he brought it up again, she'll deny it.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling his coffee cup close. "didn't mean to snap." He looked down at the black liquid within.

Sharon gave a little shrug. The sunlight coming from the window seemed to make his hair even more golden and the shadows of the kitchen made his eyes bluer. The heat spread up her cheeks. Stop thinking like that Sharon! He doesn't see you like that and besides he and Aunt Peggy were almost a thing! "So, any plans for the morning? Sam won't be in the city until lunchtime."

Steve shook his head and took a swallow of coffee. "Nah. Probably go for a run in a little bit."

"Not going back to sleep?"

"Nope. Won't be able to sleep now that I'm awake. Run will do me good." He gave her a disarming smile. "You have to stay here, Sharon. I'll be fine on my own."

"Alright." She stood up. "There's some files on the coffee table from Shield. Fury wants you to look them over." She found her cup and brought it to the sink. "I'll come by around eleven so we can go and meet Sam, okay?"

"Sure." He got up and headed towards his bedroom. "I'll see you then," he said. She nodded and let out a soft sigh as she let herself out of the apartment. Leaning against the door of her apartment she debated about what to do with Natasha being Black Widow and how she'll tell Steve about it or how she'll explain it to him if he did hear everything and brought it up again.

"One thing at a time, Carter," she muttered, unlocking her door and entering her apartment. Scratching her scalp as she closed the door, she headed to her bedroom and changed into her pajamas to take a much needed nap before her luncheon with Steve and Sam.

* * *

Clint wasn't heading home — that being about an hour and a half outside the city n a nice quiet farm — but he was heading to a home base. He wasn't sure how much access Steve had to Shield intel or if he even knew what was going on — Sharon looked a bit pale when Steve started asking about Natasha and her being Black Widow — but it was better to keep the circle close. Something he learned during his Circus of Crime days and from Coulson. Another thing he learned from Coulson: always have a safehouse outside the sphere of influence. Which was why he was in the abandon factory district in the Bronx in the first place. The abandoned building was a hulking thing of dirty glass and rusty sheet metal sides. Nobody looked twice at it as it was just another decrepit building among others. Weeds grew in the alley along side puddles of ick and there was a scrawny colony of alley cats that slunk around and meowed at him for food.

Glancing about to make sure nobody was watching, Clint unlocked the door and went inside. On the inside, the interior was modern and slightly worn. Fully stock with first aid kits and various medical supplies, money in every major world currency — including passports for eighty different countries — supplies he needed to craft a variety of arrows. Plus, MREs and bottles of water. Almost everything in here (including the building itself) had been financed from the money he had earned during his Circus of Crime days. When that ran out, he paid for the rest out of his own pocket. Shield and Fury didn't know about this, Tony and the Avengers didn't know about this either. Nobody did. Expect him.

Sighing, he paced around, storing his bow and quiver, going into the bathroom to take a shower and changing into an old shirt and a pair of sweats. He flopped into the chair by the computer and used his toe to turn the machine on before picking up the phone. The dial tone was anxiously comforting, and he dialed the number. He only had to wait a few moments before a voice came on the other end. "Hello?" the woman asked in a sleepy tone.

"Hey babe," he said, smiling as the monitor turned on, showing that the computer was booting up. Whenever he heard her voice it made whatever he was deal with seem less life threatening or world ending. "Gonna be in the city longer than planned. Hope everything is going okay with you and the kids."

"Oh you know" — he could hear the smile in her voice and the rustle of blankets — "peachy as can be. They love snuggling in bed with me when you're gone, but they miss their daddy too."

He smiled, tapping out his long in on the keyboard. The computer chimed and the screen went black for a heartbeat before showing his desktop: A picture of his family. The family that only Fury knew about. The family he would do anything — even sacrifice himself — for. "Well, I miss them too. Give them extra hugs and kisses for me."

"Always" — his wife paused — "be careful Clint. I just… I have a bad feeling and I know you… you can take care of yourself but after what happened in New York last month — I mean _aliens_, Clint. We used to joke about that on our dates."

He sighed. "I know Laura, I know," he whispered, saying her name like a prayer. "I'll be fine. I'll be careful. I got a good team at my back." Biting his lip, he tapped an icon to open up a program. Sharon didn't notice and he doubt Steve had, but there had been small little cameras in his apartment. Clint doubted that Shield put them there, so the more likely candidate was the Black Widow. Either way he was going to hack into those cameras and see if he can either disable them or trace them back to their source. "Honey, can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Oh god no, please!" he rolled his eyes. "Not Mom jokes."

"They're Dad jokes, even if moms use them."

Huffing he started working on hacking into the cameras. "Fine." He rubbed his brow. "I… I have this — do you believe in second chances? Do you think a bad person that has done bad things — terrible awful bad things — deserves a second chance?"

"Like how bad are we talking about?" Laura asked. He sighed, biting his lip when the firewall prevented him from hacking into the cameras. Grumbling, he began to try a different tactic.

"Like killing innocent people to force another's hand" — he closed his eyes — "setting fire to a children's hospital. Manipulating people only to kill them. All sorts of bad things, Laurie. This person is soaked in blood — dripping in it."

His wife was silent for a long while and for a moment he felt that Laura wouldn't answer him. Then she said, "I think everyone deserves a second chance, Clint. You did bad things—"

"— I robbed people. Swindled them out of their money. I didn't" — he swallowed thickly — "not like her."

"Clint, I don't judge people by their worst mistakes. If you feel in your heart that this person deserves a second chance, then it's your job — as the good guy — to give them this second chance," Laura said. "You're a good man. Coulson saw that in you, so did fury and so did Peggy Carter. They gave you a second chance. Now maybe it's time you paid it forward."

Again, he was denied access. It was his third attempt at hacking into the camera's system and he didn't want to get Tony in on this because that would just cause all sorts of problems. Resigning to the possibility that he may need Tony's help (only if he couldn't get it), he went back at trying to muscle his way through the security system. "You… you really think so?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Everyone deserves a second chance if they want it."

"And when… when have they committed enough atrocities to nullified that second chance?" He hit enter and a bunch of code popped up on the screen scrolling down like brightly colored rainfall.

"Are you asking if someone like Hitler deserves a second chance?" Laura asked. He swallowed. "I think there is a line, Clint. There always has to be a line. Hitler was cracked in the end. But this person we're discussing — doesn't strike me as Hitler or anywhere close."

"Alright," he said. "Anyway, I have to go babe. Kiss and hug the kids for me."

"I always do," she said, "you stay safe."

"Okay, I will." He frowned when he hit yet another firewall. This time a little cartoon bear popped up and started dancing, a word bubble appeared but it was in Russian and moved too fast for him to get the gist of it. "Love you, bye," he said, hanging up when Laura echoed his sentiment. The bear did another dance before blinking out. "Huh." He clicked on the menu button. Nothing. Frowning, he tried to open the internet browser and closed the window. The computer wasn't responding. Grumbling, he hit alt-ctrl-delete and his computer screen winked out. There was an electronic beeping sound and then silvery wisps of smoke started to escape the seems of the computer tower. "Aw, shit." He flopped back into the chair, slapping his forehead as he stared at his ruined computer. Yep, he'll definitely need Tony's help on this. He just hoped Tony could keep a secret.

* * *

It was a pleasant June afternoon, and that made Sharon feel better about this entire luncheon with Steve and Sam. Steve was wearing some of the new clothes he had bought with Natasha, and though she didn't trust the other woman, she'll admit that she had good fashion sense. At least Steve didn't outwardly look like an old man now, even if he still carried himself like one — all hunched up and nervous looking. "Relax," she said, as they walked towards the café, she told Sam to meet them at. "Sam's a great guy, really nice. No need to be so tense."

Steve gave her a weak smile, brushing his bangs from his eyes. "Thanks. I'm just… just thinking about yesterday."

That was understandable, considering she caught him glancing at his phone every few minutes as if he was waiting for Natasha to call him and explain why she left. Sam spotted them and waved them over. "Hey Sharon," he said, hugging her once they reached the table. "Been too long, you need to come down to DC."

She laughed, tossing some hair over her shoulder. "Oh, you know me Sam," she said, "if I go to DC, I'll have to go to Virginia and say to my folks" — she nudged him — "you know how my mom is."

Sam nodded, his good-natured smile never leaving his face. "Yeah. Always asking you when you'll settle down and give her grandkids" — he grinned — "maybe you can tell her it won't be as far off as she thinks now."

Flushing, she coughed and glanced at her feet. "Sam, this is Steve," she said, gesturing to Steve, who looked up from his phone. "Steve, this is Sam."

"How ya doing?" Sam asked, offering his hand. Steve slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Hi," he said, "Steve Rogers."

A giddy grin spread across Sam's face. "I… I can't believe I'm finally getting to meet Captain America!"

Steve made a face. "Don't say that so loud, don't want a mob forming around asking me for my autograph."

"Sorry. I… well this is just like a dream come true." He grinned. "Anyway, take a seat guys." Sam sat down first, then her and finally Steve — who put his phone on the table.

"Didn't know I was so famous," he muttered, grimacing as the tight metal chair pressed painfully against his thighs.

"He's kidding right?" Sam looked between her and Steve. "Right Sharon?"

Steve smiled, sparing her an awkward explanation. "Of course, I am," he said, "I know I'm famous or at least well known." He tapped the screen of his phone to wake up the screen to see if he got any alerts. It was disconcerting to her how often he was looking at it today; she put her hand on his with a sigh.

"Steve, she's going to call when she's ready," she whispered. The waitress brought over some menus and refilled Sam's ice tea. "May I suggest the mint lemonade? It's great and really refreshing," she said, looking over the café had to offer. It had been a while since she been here and never with company. The menu had fresh salads with various types of lettuce and toppings and dressings, wraps with various fillings — including a vegetarian option — and sandwiches, served hot or cold. A variety of soups, as well as juices, sodas, coffee (in all manners, flavors and styles), tea (hot or iced), water and milk.

"Besides the lemonade, what do you recommend?" Sam asked.

She bit her tongue. "The hot sandwiches are good, so are the wraps. Soups aren't bad, but I never been a fan of their salads."

The waitress came back over, looking up upon. Sam ordered an Asian wrap, she ordered a Philly cheesesteak, and Steve ordered a Southwest wrap, a ham sandwich, and a bowl of French onion soup. Sam stared at him, the waitress cocked a brow. "You want a doggy bag for any of that?" she asked, her tone condescending. Steve flushed.

"Nah, I'll be fine," he said. The waitress rolled her eyes and scribbled down their orders. She returned a bit later with two glasses of mint lemonade before disappearing again.

"I take it you don't eat out much," Sam stated, tracing the rim of his glass with the pad of his finger. Steve shook his head. "You cook then? Order in?"

"Cook," he said, "sometimes I order take-out. There's a little Chinese place near my apartment. They don't look at me funny when I order enough food to feed a family of four." He looked at his phone out again.

"You got other plans?" Sam asked, arching a brow.

"Steve, stop it," she hissed, sipping her lemonade. "The more you look at it, the worse it'll get."

"I don't know why she's not answering," he grumbled, putting his phone into his pocket. Sam glanced between them.

"Probably because you and Sharon are together and she doesn't want anything to do with you?" he said, posing it as a question. Steve turned red and Sharon choked on her drink. "You two are dating right?"

"No," she said, recovering first. "Steve… Steve and I aren't dating at all. We're friends."

"Neighbors," he added. She shrugged. "I'm not seeing anyone."

"Ah." Sam took a sip of tea. "So, must've freaked you out coming home after the whole defrosting thing?" he asked.

Steve sighed. "Takes some getting used to," he said and glanced around. Sharon knew that look, saw it on herself a lot whenever people asked her how she was holding up after Riley died. She saw it a lot on Steve when people asked him how he was doing with coming home. Even the answer was vague and non-committed. Fine without saying fine. Steve probably said similar things to get people off his case or just avoided saying anything out right.

She figured the tactic worked with other people, but Sam was different. He worked with people suffering from traumatic life changing events. "It's your bed, isn't it?" Sam asked.

Steve's eyes widened. "Hmm?" he arched a brow.

"Your bed. It's too soft. Over there, I used to sleep on the ground like a caveman, using rocks for pillows. Now that I'm back home, my bed—"

"— feels like I'm lying on a marshmallow. Think I'll sink right through the floor," Steve said, a little smile spreading across his lips.

Watching Sam work his magic always made her smile. Their food came then; curtailing the conversation momentarily, while they all dug into their meal.

"What unit you with?" Steve asked, after several bites.

"58th Rescue Squadron," Sam said, "Air Force. You?"

"The Howling Commandos," he said.

Sam nodded. "Saw the museum display. The Smithsonian scrambled to get it up as soon as they found you."

"Huh."

"So you like it here?" Sam asked.

Steve took a huge bite out of his sandwich. Sharon watched him. A pensive expression on his face. "It's not so bad," he said after a swallowing. "Food's a lot better, we used to boil everything. No polio is good. Internet — so helpful. Been reading that a lot trying to catch up."

Sam nodded. He took a sip of his tea. "Marvin Gaye, 1972, _Trouble Man_ soundtrack. Everything you missed, crammed into one album."

Steve grinned. "I'll put it on the list then," he said and pulled out a small notebook, to write it down. "So, Sharon didn't really tell me much about you. How long were you overseas?"

Sam shrugged. "Two tours" — Steve nodded — "Now I work down at the VA. PTSD counselor."

"Huh. You like it?"

"Like helping people. My mom always said I had enough heart for everyone. Volunteered at the youth center too. Helping kids make smart choices, so they can have better opportunities."

"That's admirable, Sam." He ate a little bit before asking, "how do you and Sharon know each other?"

She took a large gulp of her lemonade and Sam stared at his food. This was something she wasn't sure either of them was ready to share. "Sam and I know each other via a mutual friend," she said, Sam nodded.

Thankfully, Steve didn't press for further information, and their lunch returned to a more pleasant atmosphere. Turned out that Sam liked baseball — though not as much as Steve — and introduced Steve to football — which he preferred — and was soon giving Steve the cliffnotes version of the past seventy years of sports history. Steve was pleased to hear the Olympics stared up against after the war and the Americans athletes continued to win plenty of gold medals. He frowned in disappointment at the scandal with Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France, and even huffed in anger at how baseball was no longer build around sportsmanship and skill, but rather ego, fame and who could dope without getting caught. "So… who am I supposed to root for now?" Steve asked, upon learning that the Dodgers had moved to Los Angeles. "And what team am I supposed to take my future son too? I… what kind of Brooklynite would I be if I raised a _Yankees fan_?"

She and Sam chuckled at Steve's flummoxed horror at potentially raising a Yankees fan. Sam shrugged. "I say rooting for the Yankees is called being a good New Yorker" — Steve scowled — "I mean, I guess there's always the Mets." He added lamely.

"And the Brooklyn Cyclones," she added, scrolling through her google search on her phone. Sam snorted.

"Sharon, they're a minor league team. Nobody goes to minor league games."

"It's a Brooklyn team," Steve said, "I'll go and watch any game."

Sam paused. "You know, that may just help them. I mean… what better publicity than being the baseball team of Captain America's hometown?"

Steve huffed, polishing off his wrap and working on his soup. "Don't really like throwing that around," he said, "at least not like that."

"Okay, fair, but you gotta admit it'll help them," Sam said, sucking in some ice from his glass and crunching down on it.

"Everyone knows Steve Rogers is a Dodgers fan," she said, nudging him Steve, who chuckled. "He'll never root for the Yankees," she teased.

"He will if he wants to not get mobbed in the streets," Sam said, rolled his eyes. "I grew up in Harlem. Steve" — Sam looked at him — "take it from me and do yourself a favor. Root for the Yankees. I mean what's more important to you? Holding onto outdated prejudices between boroughs or embracing the spirit of being a New Yorker with a really great team to back?"

Steve sighed, shaking the ice in his glass. "I'll think about it." He gave Sam a sly grin. "I could always just move to LA, though." He tossed back some ice and crunched down on it.

Sam threw his hands up. "At least I got him to think about it," he said and stood. He pulled out some money and handed it over to her.

"No Sam," she said.

"Please, my mom will have my hide if I didn't pay for my share." He looked at Steve. "I'll be here for a few weeks, guest counselor at the Brooklyn VA. So, if you wanna drop by feel free. Also, I'll be volunteering up at the youth center in Harlem, so stop by there too." He pressed the twenty dollars into Sharon's hand. "Later," he said and left.

"I like him," Steve said, pulling out his phone to look at it. "Seemed nice. Swell fella."

"Yeah, maybe you two should meet up without me. I can give you his number."

"Sure, I'll like that," he said, a frown tugging at his lips. Sighing, he stood up and pocketed his phone. "Well, I'm going to head home. I have some paintings I wanna work on and there's the stuff I have from yesterday to take care of."

"You sure you don't want me to come with you? I could help."

Steve shook his head. "Nah, I'm good. Thanks Sharon," he said. He pulled out five dollars. "For the tip." He patted it on top of the table. "Bye Sharon. When the waitress came back, she paid for their meal and sat there long after the girl came back with the receipt. For a moment she thought about going home but didn't want Steve to feel like she was following him to nag him further. Still worried about his wellbeing, and the news that Steve's dance teacher is the Black Widow, Sharon thought it best to pay her beloved aunt a visit. So, she caught a cab and went to the assisted living facility her cousin Hector hand stashed his dying mother in. When she thought about it, it was a terribly cruel fate for Peggy: to be slowly stripped of her memories, abandoned by the children she raised with love and care. It hurt that Uncle Dan had passed away back in the early 2000s and after that Aunt Peggy was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Hector swiftly dumped the family's matriarch into a nursing home. Even her own father didn't protest his cousin's actions.

The inside of the nursing home was a soothing ivory, with fake potted plants artfully arranged to some tried and true feng shui that gave the elderly a calming sense. The two sides of the lobby were spacious and open, so the residents could mingle with guests and those family members that still gave a damn about them. The nurse at the desk waved at her. "Hey Miss Carter, here to see Peggy today?" he asked, flashing a brilliant white smile that seemed too bright against his dark skin.

Returning the smile, she said: "Yeah. She's doing okay?"

"Uh-huh. Been having a lot of good days. She'll be happy to see you. You should tell Steve to drop by, she keeps asking for him."

"Will do Jake," she said, heading around the desk to the elevator. Jake handed her the visitor badge, which she clipped to shirt. Peggy's room was on the first floor at the end of the hall near the garden. As a girl, Sharon remembered the roses her aunt tended with loving care, as well as irises and tulips. The flowers always sparked great joy in her and Peggy would speak softly to her, telling her how all the strength and courage in the world would be for naught if she didn't use that to serve life, how she and those that came after her had to be better than those who came before. She missed those moments with her aunt. "Knock knock," she said, opening the door to Peggy's room.

It was the same soothing ivory white with a bed at one end, the couch next to a window, with a low table and a cushy chair. There was a book shelf opposite the bed, and two nightstands by the bed: one filled with pill bottles and the other with family photos. Peggy turned and for a moment Sharon feared her aunt didn't recognize her — but a smile broke upon Peggy's wrinkled old face, and the relief she felt at the sight was akin to a wave crash upon the shore.

"Sharon!" Peggy pushed herself to her feet, bearing most of her weight on her cane. "So good to see you! Did you bring Steve?" she asked, hobbling over to her. Sharon closed the gap and hugged her aunt only to guide her to the couch. Peggy huffed as she sat down again. "I was watching the birds. June is lovely, all the cold of winter is gone but the heat of summer hasn't yet set in."

"It's nice, yes," she agreed, "and no I didn't bring Steve. He's… he's not doing so well I'm afraid."

"What do you mean?" Peggy frowned. "Is he sick? Steve can't get sick, Sharon. The serum keeps him healthy as a horse."

It was true, she knew that much about the serum. Taking her aunt's hand, she gave Peggy's gnarly old fingers a comforting squeeze. "I… he's not adjusting well to life after the war. To this time period. He just needs some time that's all." She offered her aunt what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

Peggy looked down. "If only Howard had found him," she whispered. It hurt to hear that regret and guilt in her aunt's voice. Tsking, she hugged Peggy, smoothing her pale grey hair. "If Howard had found him sooner—"

"No, Auntie, don't do that. I think, regardless of when Steve was found, he would still have had… these issues. You can't just bounce back after being frozen."

Peggy sighed. "You're right," she said, pulling back and cupping Sharon's face. "When did you get to be so wise?"

She grinned, taking her aunt's hands in her own. "Well, I had a good teacher." Tenderly, she brushed her thumbs along Peggy's knuckles, feeling the old paper-thin skin and the knobby veins that jutted up. "Also… there is something else I want to talk to you about."

"Oh?" Peggy frowned. "About what?"

"Yeah… I… Auntie, what can you tell me about the Black Widow?"

* * *

**Decided to change the POVs up for this chapter. Something in my gut told me that I needed to stay out of Steve and Nat's heads for this. Hope you guys enjoy! **

**Next update should be around the 16****th**** – 18****th**** of September. **

**Save an author; leave a review. **


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